Love Ballads For the Nonbelievers
by JustlikeWater
Summary: When Sherlock returns to London two years after his supposed suicide, life as he knew it has changed irrevocably; John is engaged, 221B is empty, and for some reason the whole world suddenly seems to revolve around John's fiancé, Mary. For the sake of their friendship, Sherlock struggles to suppress his feelings for John, but yearning hearts can only stay quiet for so long...
1. Discontent

**A/N: This is a fix-it fic for season 3, and even though it doesn't immediately start off with rainbows and sunshine and johnlocky goodness, I can assure you it involves a lot less Mary and Magnussen-murdering than the actual show-which is a huge plus in my opinion. Also, Johnlock is endgame, so there's that lovely bonus too. **

**Make sure to sub/follow for updates, if things go according to plan then the next chapter should be up by next Sunday :) Feedback would be glorious, darlings, I'd love to hear what you think!**

**Enjoy!**

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><p><em><strong>Discontent:<strong> (noun) a restless desire or craving for something one does not have_

1.

There are a lot of things Sherlock is expecting when he bursts into 221b at one in the morning precisely two years after his supposed death—namely, John hugging him for ages and cursing like a sailor. He's even prepared for the scenario of John giving him two black eyes and a few well-deserved shoves. However Sherlock is_ not_ expecting the flat to be cold and quiet and clearly uninhabited.

Once he's made his way into the flat, he flicks on the lights and is greeted by a room full of white sheet-covered furniture. The dust is an inch thick on any given surface, rolled up carpets rest against the far wall along with a lone stack of papers and one haphazardly sealed box, and his bookshelf is completely barren. Only his skull remains in its familiar perch on the mantel.

It becomes apparent that John no longer lives here.

At first, he thinks he must be experiencing some sort of hallucination. After all, it's been some time since he's slept (forty six hours and ten minutes, to be precise) so it could very well be his hazy, overworked mind playing tricks on him. He very much wants to believe this is the case, but the white cloth beneath his fingertips feels too tangible to be imagined and the sharp smell of dust and mothballs is undeniably real.

Something fierce and panicked roars inside his chest and all at once his excitement to see John withers and twists at the sickening realization that perhaps John has done the unthinkable and _moved on_. Perhaps Sherlock has been forgotten.

The thing is, this wasn't supposed to happen—this wasn't part of the _plan_.

He did not spend two years in what he can accurately call his own hell only to come back to find his old life in tatters. He did not spend every single second of his 'death' thinking about John, regretting all the times he should've done something but didn't or wanted to say something but refrained, and planning out the exact words that would precede their first kiss only to realize John has moved on just fine without him.

He did not kill himself for _this._

* * *

><p>2.<p>

When he finds out John is engaged, an unexpected ache blossoms inside his chest like a rose, all thorny and robust and thoroughly unrelenting.

"Isn't it wonderful, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asks as she refills his glass of orange juice one morning, precisely forty eight hours after he has rejoined the land of the living.

Sherlock's heart is withering inside his chest, but he does his best to look unaffected because he has learned that it is not wise to express one's emotions too blatantly. He pushes his eggs around his plate and tries to appear neutral. "Yes, it is wonderful, but for some reason John failed to mention it to me when we spoke."

Mrs. Hudson frowns and pauses in her task of brewing their tea. "Now that's odd. He's been practically shouting it from rooftops ever since he proposed a month ago. I wonder why he didn't bring it up?"

* * *

><p>3.<p>

There is a lot to say, but neither of them say it.

They don't talk about anything important and John doesn't get angry and Sherlock doesn't fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness and nothing goes according to plan because apparently there's someone named _Mary _in the picture now, which really changes everything.

"She's incredible, Sherlock," John tells him one afternoon while they're unpacking boxes and moving Sherlock's things back into the flat. "You'll like her." Then John has the gall to _pat his knee_ and _smile_ as if there is even one iota of a chance that Sherlock will not abhor whoever has stolen John away from him.

"Yes, I'm sure," he replies evenly, and places another book back onto the shelf with more force than is perhaps necessary.

After that, they don't say much except for John occasionally asking if this goes there or if that belongs here, but Sherlock doesn't mind the silence because it's far better than hearing about Mary Elizabeth Morstan (soon-to-be-Watson) and all of her wonderful, admirable traits.

Something mean and bitter and broken coats his insides like tar, and although he is well aware that it's extremely pointless, he hopes that Mary turns out to be an awful woman who will break John's heart and send him running back to Sherlock. Guilt nips at the tail end of this thought, but not enough to make him regret wishing for it.

Two hours into it, John breaks the silence and says, "I missed you, you know?"

Surprisingly, he isn't looking at Sherlock, he's staring down at something in his hands with glossy eyes and a faraway look. Closer scrutiny reveals that it is a picture of the two of them he cut from the papers a few years back, only it seems John framed it while Sherlock was away.

He swallows hard and looks resolutely at the floor. He already knows that whatever he can possibly say won't even come close to what he actually feels for John, and for that reason alone he almost forgoes responding altogether. However, the last thing he wants is for John to think that Sherlock does not care about him—John calling him a machine still echoes in his mind sometimes, even though he knows John didn't mean it and would apologize immediately if he knew it still bothered Sherlock—so he puts down the box of old files and says, "I missed you greatly, John. Every single day."

If things were different, he might've punctuated that confession with a kiss. He might've reached out and grabbed John's hand and pulled him to heart like he's wanted to for the longest time, and he might've even said _I love you_ too, all whisper soft and careful.

But things aren't different, so instead of doing any of those things, Sherlock goes back to stacking papers and John resumes shelving books, and the two of them continue their game of dancing around the Things That Need to Be Said.

And even though John is only across the room, the distance between them might as well be ten thousand miles.

* * *

><p><em><strong>So glad you're finally going to meet Mary! Do you need the address of the café?<strong>_

_I'll find it. SH_

_**Sherlock, thanks again. I Really appreciate this**__._

* * *

><p>That night he dreams that he is swimming in the ocean and John is waving to him from the shore. Sherlock wants to go to him but every time he attempts to swim towards John the water surges back and holds him in place, gripping him like an unrelenting fist. He flails about uselessly and tries to call John's name for what feels like hours, but his vocal cords are severed and the water level continues to steadily rise, and before long, John leaves, tired of waiting and wasting his time.<p>

It's when he realizes that John isn't coming back that Sherlock finally stops struggling and allows himself to drown.

* * *

><p>4.<p>

"Hi, I'm Mary," she says with a smile. Her eyes are as green as sour apple gumdrops and her laughter is reminiscent of chiming bells and summer evenings spent on the beach. There is elegance in her hands, grace in her smile, kindness in her words, and a nonspecific sort of beauty emitting from her like beams of light.

"Sherlock," he says and shakes her hand.

She's a nurse. He can see it in her precise movements, sharp, intelligent eyes, and the way she doesn't look phased when the conversion briefly dawdles near corpses from a recent case. He also knows because ten minutes after meeting him, she tells him that she and John first met at the clinic. She has well-kept nailbeds, shiny blonde hair, a cardigan sweater, and dimples at either end of her smile. She is the epitome of John's 'ideal woman'.

Mary beams at him. "It's so lovely to finally meet you, Sherlock. John talks about you constantly."

John ducks his head and grins. "Now, now, love, it's isn't _constantly_…"

Mary just chuckles and places her hand over John's, gazing at him warmly from across the table, and John stares back, equally enamored, his features nearly unrecognizable in their blatant tenderness and adoration.

The whole display immediately causes a strange ache to settle inside Sherlock's chest.

Without doubt, she will give John a perfectly acceptable life. There will be Christmas cards with pictures of the family and baked goods cooling on the counter each morning, and neatly-ironed, freshly-laundered clothes hanging in their shared wardrobe. John will come along on cases with Sherlock occasionally, perhaps when he has nothing better to do, but at the end of the night he'll always return to his warm house and beaming family and Sherlock will go home to a quiet flat with empty rooms.

_The Watsons_ will have two children and a nice house with a white picket fence and both their names on the mailbox and John will work happily at the clinic while Mary continues her career as a nurse and the two of them will lead a lovely, picturesque life until they are buried side by side in their designated, flower-adorned grave plots.

"Er, Sherlock? Are you alright, dear?"

Mary is all John has ever wanted in life; she is stability, she is beauty, she is constancy and patience and kindness all wrapped into one convenient, feminine package.

Sherlock bites the inside of his check and flutters his fingers anxiously against the table top.

It does not take a detective to understand that John's family portrait—equipped with the house and the kids and the dog—does not include his lanky, looming form. He doesn't fit in—never has, really—and it's a miracle in itself that he's managed to keep John's company this long.

"Sherlock? Hello? John, is he alright?"

It's only been fifteen minutes and their drinks haven't even arrived yet, but all of a sudden Sherlock can't stand to be there another second. Mary is saying something—probably to him, judging by her gaze and gesturing hands—but his blood is rushing in his ears too loudly for him to hear.

"Sherlock, you okay?" John asks. He looks mildly concerned, probably because Sherlock has barely spoken three words and is currently making a point of ignoring whatever Mary is telling him.

Sherlock stares at John for a long moment, gives him a veiled look, and then abruptly stands. His glass of water is untouched. "This has been lovely, but I'm afraid something vastly important has come up. Apologies, Mary. Shame we couldn't have chatted."

And without another word, he sweeps out of the café in three long strides, his hands fisted inside his pockets and his jaw clenched tightly. Outside, the pavement is slick with rain from this morning's storm and Sherlock nearly slips as he strides from the building, in haste to distance himself from the sharp pain stabbing behind his ribcage

"Sherlock! Sherlock, what the bloody—hold on, will you?" John shouts as he pushes his way out of the café, the front door's bell chiming in his wake.

John's stride is much shorter than his so it takes a bit of jogging for him to catch up to Sherlock, but even when he does Sherlock makes no effort to slow down, so John reaches out and grabs the sleeve of his coat, pulling him to a halt. "Sherlock," he pants, "what the _hell _was that back there? What came up?"

Sherlock pointedly looks away, his tone gruff. "You wanted me to meet Mary, correct? Well now I've met her. A prolonged interaction was unnecessary and I have more pressing matters to deal with at the moment."

Having caught his breath, John straightens and releases Sherlock's coat. "Oh?" he says with a frown. "What's more important than this?"

He suddenly feels the strangest urge to hurt John. Not physically—he'd never do that. No, instead Sherlock has an even crueler urge to make John feel as miserable as he does; he wants John to feel that rotting ache behind his ribcage, that stabbing pain that pieces through his heart like knives and long nails and drags itself all the way down to his toes—he wants John to understand how bloody _miserable_ he feels. And the thing is, he knows exactly how to do it, too. His words can be cutting when he wants them to be.

"Oh, you know, perhaps staring at a blank wall. Or maybe watching paint dry."

His words provoke the intended reaction and John immediately looks angry. Unfortunately, he also looks hurt, but Sherlock supposes that's collateral damage he'll just have to live with for now. "What the hell is wrong with you? Do you not like Mary?"

Mary is perfect and more importantly, she is normal. She's exactly what John wants. However she is nowhere near what John _needs._

Rainclouds reassemble overhead. Sherlock smiles icily. "She's _deplorable_."

Now John looks furious. He steps towards Sherlock and Sherlock backpedals into the mouth of the alley, his back hitting the brick wall behind him. "Fucking hell, Sherlock, what's your problem?"

Tension crackles and spits in the air like embers of fire. He can practically hear John's heart pounding—can practically _feel_ it from their close proximity. Yearning scorches the insides of his chest so fiercely that the sensation could easily be mistaken for anger. If this were a different day, he might've ducked down and kissed John. He might've pressed his lips to every inch of his skin and sobbed into John's neck from the utter relief and gratitude of it.

But today is not that day. John is Mary's now. Only she can do those things.

"Problem?" he laughs, because the only alternative is to sob. "I don't have a problem, John. You have a problem. You're trying to convince yourself that she can give you the kind of life you want, but she _can't _and you know it as well as I know it."

Sherlock _wants_ to say awful things, he wants to fight. He knows he's goading John and he's pretty sure that John knows it too, but they're both obviously itching to hash things out—for different reasons, of course—so instead of being a rational adult and calming down, Sherlock gets meaner. Unnecessarily cruel. "She's dull and typical, John, and I thought you'd already moved past the pathetic phase of your life in which you intentionally sought unsatisfying things. Don't begrudge me for not being impressed with this false little suburban existence you're endeavoring to construct for yourself, and especially do not resent the fact that I abhor the virtuous, picture-perfect woman you've chosen to place at the center of your terribly misguided universe—"

"Shut _up!"_

When John's fist connects with his face, white stars explode behind his eyelids and unbelievable pain scorches through his skull like liquid fire. His nose is in agony. He staggers and braces himself against the brick wall, then pauses for a moment to take stock of the situation. John is breathing heavily and staring at him and there is a smear of blood on his knuckles, but he already looks sorry. He looks like he hates himself.

However, Sherlock doesn't want an apology. He _wants_ his face to ache because it provides a lovely distraction from the pain blooming in his heart and he knows he deserved to be punched anyway so he'll gladly take his punishment. He wanted it, after all.

"John," he mumbles, not quite sure what he intends to say next.

He considers sobbing from the sheer horror of what their relationship has become or perhaps screaming in frustration at his stupid bloody heart and its infinite unrequited desires. Eventually, though, he settles on laughing. It isn't a good sound. It is low and shattered and he hates the way it makes John's face cloud over with hurt. "You broke my nose," he marvels, allowing the blood to drip over his lips and down his chin.

John's voice is shaky. He takes a step closer. "Sherlock, I'm sor—"

Sherlock takes a large step back. "Don't."

Overhead, the heavens split open and the rainclouds begin to cry. John looks so lost, so troubled, that for a moment Sherlock wishes he hadn't said anything at all.

"I don't like Mary," he repeats and he isn't quite sure why he says it, only that the words are sitting there on his tongue and he has no pressing reason to hold them back.

John looks up at him with tired eyes. "You're so selfish, you know that?"

Sherlock doesn't feel like laughing anymore. He laughed earlier because at the time it felt marginally better than crying, but now he suddenly feels too tired for either, so instead he drops his gaze to John's shoulder and absently plucks at the hem of his sleeve. "Yes. I know."

John opens his palm and flexes his sore fingers and stares down at the crimson streaks across his knuckles. "You were dead, Sherlock."

Sherlock wilts against the bricks. He doesn't reply because he knows where this is going.

"You were dead and now you've just decided to waltz back into my life and demand that everything fall in sync with your plan. What about me, Sherlock? What about what I want?"

He clenches his jaw. His molars gnash together. "What _do_ you want, John?"

John doesn't answer him. Instead he exhales harshly from his nose and shakily repeats, "You. Were. _Dead._ Now I just…I want," he runs his hand gruffly through his hair and looks skyward. "I want you to not hate her. I want both of you in my life, alright? Please, just…just give her a chance, Sherlock."

Two years ago he told to himself that he wouldn't lie to John anymore, so instead of promising anything he settles with a nod. It's acknowledgement, at least. "I really must be going," he lies, "busy schedule and all."

John bites at the inside of his cheek. "I'll call you, okay?"

Sherlock's smile is twitchy and forced. He knows there are bloodstains on his teeth but he shows them anyway. "Yes. Okay."

…

But it isn't okay.

So he goes home and breaks a few things and then winds up where he usually does, holed up in John's old bedroom on the unused mattress, burying his nose into the material and trying to conjure up John's scent. It's pathetic and useless—like most things he does these days—but he can't seem to help himself. He thinks perhaps he needs distance from John, just until he can get his head on straight and put his heart back in his chest where it belongs, instead of on his sleeve for the world to see.

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><p><strong>AN: Updates next Sunday, lovelies! Pretty please with sugar on top let me know what you think! I'd love to hear some feedback, it's a huge help with the writing process. Thanks for reading, everyone!**

**Until next time, darlings! XoXo**


	2. Distance

**A/N: The feedback I received on the first chapter was immensely encouraging, so I'm posting this chapter a day earlier than expected! Thanks so much to all of you who commented and subscribed, it means so much. **

**Enjoy!**

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><p><em><strong>Distance:<strong> (noun) the empty space between two places_

_. . . _

1.

After three days of static silence, he receives a text from John.

_**I'm sorry for breaking your nose. **_

It's two in the afternoon and he's right in the middle of a very important experiment involving a myriad of semi-toxic chemicals, but the moment his mobile buzzes, he puts all of it aside for the sake of scrutinizing the simple yet significant bundle of words.

After peeling off his gloves and collapsing onto the sofa, Sherlock stares at the small, dimly lit screen of his mobile for a long time—so long that the letters appear on the backs of his eyelids when he blinks—and quietly marvels at how such a short sentence can resonate so powerfully.

In truth, it's no surprise that John was the first to reach out; it was only a matter of time before the guilt got the best of John and forced him to apologize, even though Sherlock very clearly stated that he did not want an apology. If anything, he should be grateful that John_ only_ broke his nose. Sherlock provoked John—he pushed at his buttons and said things he knew would hurt him, all for the sake of soothing his own petty heart—and because of that, John had every right to break every single damn bone in Sherlock's body. The fact that he contented himself with just a punch was mercy.

However, he knows John Watson and he is well aware that John would never do that to him, no matter what Sherlock might say or do.

_I deserved it. Don't apologize. SH_

_**No, you didn't deserve it. Don't say that. I lost control, it's my fault. **_

Sherlock absently touches his tentatively healing nose with an index finger and thinks, _no,_ _I most certainly did deserve this_. But of course John Watson, ultimate bearer of guilt and good heartedness, isn't going to see that.

There's quite a bit he'd like to tell John, namely that he only said those things because he is an absolute bloody fool with a fevered heart and waning self-restraint, but the mountain of unspoken things seems too vast to compact into one message.

_**Do you think we could get lunch tomorrow? Need to talk to you.**_

His kneejerk reaction sends his fingers flying across the keyboard in haste to reply with an enthusiastic _yes! _and he's on the brink of hitting send when it occurs to him that if he goes to lunch with John, John will think things are okay between them and then the next time they're together, he'll bring Mary along, and before Sherlock knows it he'll be back at square one, having terrible coffee dates with the soon-to-be _Watsons_ while John and Mary smile adoringly at each other and Sherlock stares uncomfortably at the tabletop.

And, see, that's the tricky part about Not Talking About Things: it always results in bottled up something or another, which in this case happens to be heartache and misplaced anger. The wise thing to do would be to address the problem at the source and finally talk about those long, heartbroken two years in which Sherlock was 'dead' and John was alone. The wise thing to do would be to let John scream and shout and sob his way through this tunnel of conflict and come out the other side with forgiveness, instead of allowing the unsaid things between them to fester and simmer in the air like poison. The wise thing to do would be to tell John why he jumped, why he had to leave and lie and deceive, and make him understand that he is the only thing in Sherlock's miserable life worth saving and to lose him would be to lose his own heart.

But Sherlock has never claimed to be wise and cold intellect offers poor guidance, so instead of doing any of this, he lies.

_I'm afraid I can't as I am currently in the middle of an important case. SH _

In reality, his schedule is as free as a bird. He hasn't taken a case in days and the last time he was offered the prospect of work—aka, this morning when Lestrade stopped by with an unaccountably thin stack of files—he promptly refused, figuring that brooding in his empty flat was more enticing than solving some halfwit crime that was hardly worth the ten minute commute.

Despite the complete availability of his schedule, he is in no shape to see John.

He plucks his phone off the coffee table once it buzzes again and stares at the message, his heart aching at John's persistence.

_**Tuesday then. **_

He takes a deep breath and does not allow his resolve to waver. What he needs right now (and for the foreseeable future) is to distance himself from John and wait until his emotions settle into something resembling 'acceptance' and 'cool indifference'. If he tries to see John now, it'll only mean misery for both of them and will most likely end in the same manner their last meeting had. It's in both his and John's best interest that the two of them do not see each other for a while. There's simply too much tension and energy charging in the air right now—things need to simmer down considerably before anything resembling normalcy starts to return to their relationship.

_Busy. SH _

_**Wednesday? Thursday?**_

_As I said, it is an important case. SH_

_**Right. Got it. **_

_**But let me know when your schedule frees up. I want to see you.**_

_Will do. SH_

Then Sherlock throws his phone back onto the table and continues doing nothing, his empty schedule stretching out before him like an endless, vacant road.

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><p>2.<p>

"John hasn't come around for a while dear, is everything okay between you two?" Mrs. Hudson asks one evening as she restocks Sherlock's fridge.

"Yes, yes, everything is fine, Mrs. Hudson, we simply have a lot going on in our respective lives at the moment."

She pokes her head out of the fridge to give him a doubtful look. "Really, love? Because you haven't moved off that sofa in about a week."

She certainly isn't wrong about that, but a mix of pride and stubbornness prompts Sherlock to scowl and scathingly reply, "I've done plenty in the past week, Mrs. Hudson, though perhaps you were too busy with your incessant baking and useless fretting to notice." He wraps his dressing gown around himself and flops onto the sofa with a huff, the silk material whipping dramatically like a cape.

"Now don't get sharp with me, dear," she warns, waving a finger at him. She plucks a jar of marmalade off the top shelf and turns it over in search of the expiration date. "Besides, love, there's no need to lie to me. I've known you for some time now, Sherlock, I can tell when something is bothering you. Now, why don't you tell me what is happening between you and John?"

"I can assure you, nothing is amiss with John and I, so kindly stop insisting otherwise because—"

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson interrupts, placing the jar onto the counter with a loud thud. "Please, stop with that." She crosses the short distance between the kitchen and the sitting room and puts her hands on her hips, brow puckered and expression blazing, looking like the embodiment of matronly chastisement. "If you claim that everything is fine one more time, I will contact John Watson myself and find out what is going on because I do not appreciate being lied to and I want to know why my two favorite tenants are no longer speaking to each other." She sighs heavily and leans against the wooden threshold of the kitchen, her eyes going soft. "I know how much John means to you, dear, and I also know how private you are about your emotions, so I won't pressure you into telling me anything. I just want you to know that whatever this is about, whatever is happening between the two of you, is only an obstacle. And I have no doubt you two can overcome it."

Memories of Mary's pretty smile flicker tauntingly before his eyes. Her red lips say _I won. He's mine now._ He remembers the way John kissed her hello and stared at her like she was the sun, and suddenly the notion of him and Sherlock 'overcoming' anything seems exceptionally unlikely.

"Perhaps you're right, Mrs. Hudson," he says eventually, because he knows she's waiting for a response. "We'll figure it out."

She beams. "I know you will, dear. That's the spirit!"

Now weary, Sherlock closes his eyes and ears and descends somewhere quiet, his face pressed into the cushions of the sofa and his hands clenched tightly into fists. Mrs. Hudson says something after that in dulcet, comforting tones, but it doesn't reach him inside the soundproofed walls of his empty, echoing mind palace.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Are you free this week?<strong>_

_Murder case, 3 victims no connections. No. SH_

_**You said the same thing last week, only then it was a kidnapping. And the week before was grand theft.**_

_I'm a busy man, John. SH_

_**I talked to Lestrade yesterday. Said you haven't taken a case in a month.**_

_**Sherlock why are you avoiding me?  
><strong>_

_**Can we talk? **_

_**Sherlock.**_

_**Please?**_

* * *

><p>3.<p>

"I miss him," he tells his skull one evening, "so much that it actually hurts." He sighs and morosely places it back on the mantel. "I suppose this is what dying must feel like."

. . .

Nights are especially lonely, so to fill the silence of the empty, dimly lit flat, he plays the violin until his fingers cramp and his wrists ache and the sun spills like yolk over the early morning stretch of horizon.

* * *

><p><em><strong>[You have 9 missed calls and 4 voice messages]<strong>_

_January 30, 5:15pm_

_Oh, that was the beep. Okay, right, I suppose that's my cue then. Er, Sherlock, it's John. I don't know why you aren't answering your phone but it's starting to worry me. I mean, I know you're physically okay because Mrs. Hudson and I chatted yesterday and she said you were fine, but…well, I just wonder why you won't take my calls or answer my texts. Are you angry with me? I know I shouldn't have punched you and I haven't stopped hating myself for it since it happened and—god, I'm just, I'm so sorry. I lost control. I was an idiot. I need to talk to you because I miss you and I don't like not hearing from you in so long. Call me back when you get this. _

_January 31, 8:30pm_

_I know you aren't taking any cases (Lestrade told me over a few pints, if you were wondering how I knew that) and Mycroft would've alerted me if you were anywhere near drugs again, and I don't imagine you'd be content with sitting around the flat watching telly every day for several weeks, so I can't puzzle out what you're so preoccupied with. You said you were busy but you've got nothing on and that means you're ignoring me just for the sake of ignoring me. Please, Sherlock, just tell me what I need to do to—Mary! Hello, love, how was work? Who is this? Oh, it's, er, an old friend from Uni. We were just chatting about the reunion that's coming up in May. Yeah, Robert, Mary just got home, I'll have to call you back. Ta. _

_February 1__st__, 1:15am_

_Right, got the machine again. _

_February 2__nd__, 2:30am _

_I suppose I should explain why I lied to Mary the other day. She thinks I need to give you space. She says I need to stop pestering you with calls and messages because you're a 'grown man with a lot going on in his life right now' and it's 'no big deal' that you're busy all the time because 'that's how things are sometimes.' She says I'm overthinking things. I don't know, maybe I am. Maybe this is how things are going to be between us from now on: you doing your own thing, me doing mine. Except—no. You know what? I'm not content with that. I lost you for too long to just give you up again so easily. You said things that hurt me that day, Sherlock, and I know I did my own fair share of damage. But you can't keep ignoring me like this and trying to sweep what happened under the rug. In case you've forgotten, I can't read people the way you can. I don't know what's wrong with you just by your silence. I don't know how to make this better and I never will unless you tell me. I told you what I want already: for you and Mary to be in my life. I love Mary, Sherlock, and it would mean the world if you at least liked her. You're very important to me and…I just, I wish you — I don't know, if only you hadn't…._

_You know what, it's too late at night to be saying this. I can't sleep which is why I'm calling you at such an ungodly hour. Maybe you're still awake too. Or you're sound asleep like the rest of London's sane residents. Yeah, alright, I think I'm gonna go. I'll probably wake up Mary if I keep talking. Call me back or text me when you get this. Hell—send up smoke signals in the sky. I'll take anything. Goodnight, Sherlock. _

_***beep***_

_**[You have saved 4/4 messages]**_

* * *

><p><em>4.<em>

Sitting around the flat and pitying himself loses its luster fairly quickly, so on the eighteenth day of Ignoring John, he peels himself off the sofa, shrugs into his coat and a pair of decent trousers, and despondently makes his way to St. Bart's in hopes of finding something complex and organic to dissect. Preferably a lung—it's been quite some time since he's done one of those.

_Molly, would you be amenable to me using the lab today? SH_

_Of course, Sherlock! Is this for an experiment or a case? xoxoMolls _

_Experiment. Preferably a tissue dissection. SH_

_Okay, sounds good. I'll meet you there :) xoxoMolls _

After not seeing daylight in so long, the outside world seems blindingly bright and intolerably loud, and it's all so overwhelming that he winces as soon as he steps out of the flat. Thankfully the journey from the flat to Bart's is a short one.

…

The lab is clean and smells strongly of floor cleaner and the tangy residue of chemicals, and as soon as Sherlock enters the room a little bit of tension immediately melts from his shoulders. This place is his second home, his safe haven: his escape.

Molly is somewhere behind him babbling and giggling nervously, but that's business as usual so Sherlock ignores her in favor of searching for the new shipment of lab tools.

Unfortunately, there are no good bits left over from the latest murder—which he missed during his sulking binge the previous week—but there _is _however a jar of perfectly serviceable ring fingers in the ICAC freezer unit, and Molly will be happy enough to give them to him as long as he makes sure to smile and 'ask nicely'.

"Molly?" he smoothly interrupts, "Could I ask something of you?"

She stops telling her story immediately and raises her eyebrows, her expression bright and open. "Of course, Sherlock, what do you need?"

He takes two brisk steps and plants himself in front of the freezer's metal door, ready to ask for the jar, when it occurs to him that perhaps there are more important things he ought to ask of Molly. She seems willing to listen to whatever he'd like to say—which is not particularly surprising since Molly is the sort of person who is genuinely kind, if not a bit too eager to please—and out of everyone he knows, save for the obvious exception of John, Molly is the only person he feels semi-comfortable discussing personal matters with. Ever since she helped him forge his death certificate and complete his two year-long ruse, he's felt closer to her and has come to trust her greatly. He supposes that if anyone should be privy to the emotional conflict warring inside of him, it ought to be the beaming woman before him.

Decided, he moves away from the freezer and seats himself at the counter, figuring this conversation is one he'd rather have sitting. It's a long, complex subject to broach, so he starts with something innocuous. "Out of curiosity, what do you think of Mary?"

She follows his lead and takes a seat on one of the tall metal stools. "John's fiancé? Well, she's friendly and quite beautiful, and she seems to make John happy, so I suppose I like her. I've only shared a few polite conversations with her, but from what I gather, she's a lovely woman."

His fingertips drum in discord against the cold metal tabletop. "Yes, of course."

It's hardly a surprise that Molly feels this way, as she is generally a very accepting, welcoming person and Mary happens to be particularly charming even without the added benefit of acquainting someone as kind as Molly. His half-hearted hope of discovering a flaw within Mary's seemingly perfect persona wanes, but doesn't die entirely. He clears his throat and attempts to appear unaffected, deciding to use a different route of questioning. "Were you in contact with John when he began dating Mary?"

Molly bites the inside of her cheek and cuts her eyes away, a vaguely troubled look passing over her features. "We weren't in contact_ right_ when they started going out so I didn't see the immediate change in him, but I did see him a few months after you, er, died, and he was an absolute wreck. It was_ bad_, Sherlock. I bumped into him at Tesco's last year and he looked fifteen pounds lighter, sleep-deprived, and half-dead. We had a strange, extremely brief conversation—something about the rising cost of apples? I don't know, we were standing in the produce section—and then he brought you up out of nowhere. Yeah, just started talking about how you used to leave your lab reports everywhere and how you'd always hack into his laptop no matter how many times he changed the password. I wasn't really sure how to respond, but it didn't seem to matter because John had this hazy look about him, as if he was alone with his thoughts and it couldn't have mattered less what I said.

The next time I saw him was two months ago, and let me tell you, he didn't even look like the same person. For one, _he_ actually visited _me, w_hich I found shocking in itself since he hadn't left the flat in more than a year, and, even more surprisingly, he actually looked _happy_. He was flushed and smiling and his old humor was back in place—I mean, I couldn't believe that the subdued, hollow-eyed John I'd seen in Tesco's that afternoon had somehow transformed into the grinning, lively man before me. Goodness, and when he talked about Mary his entire face just lit up like a firework."

Storm clouds roll and bundle under Sherlock's skin, sending electric disappointment and grim acceptance roiling through his veins like waves of frozen water. "So, what you're saying is, John is better off with Mary?"

"Yes, I'd say so, he's certainly—" she cuts herself off suddenly and narrows her eyes at him, her expression becoming blank, then scrutinizing, before finally landing somewhere entirely unreadable. Sherlock shifts uncomfortably under her surprisingly piercing gaze. "Sherlock," she says slowly "what is this about? Why are you asking these things?"

"No reason. I was simply curious as to how John's manner changed when he met Mary."

"You looked pretty surprised when I told you about the Tesco thing…did he not tell you about how he felt while you were gone?"

"It hadn't come up," he says quietly. A black, gaping chasm yawns inside his chest at the thought that he of all people managed to break John Watson. A sharp jolt of self-hatred cuts through him like a knife.

"What do you mean it hadn't come up? Have you two talked to each other about those two years at all…?"

Something hot and wet pricks at the backs of his eyes and the sensation is so unfamiliar that Sherlock initially fails to recognize them for what they are: tears. Or at least the beginnings of them. "Molly, I actually just remembered I have important business to attend to at Baker Street, I really must be going. Thank you for your company and for answering my questions. Your responses have…enlightened me."

"Sherlock, wait, where are you—"

But he's out of the lab with the door slamming behind him before she can finish the sentence.

…

Later that night, he spends three solid hours pacing in the sitting room while his mobile sits enticingly on the table, trying to decide whether or not to call John. Molly's answers have shed light on a sore spot he wasn't even aware he possessed: apparently those dark little voices in the back of his mind that warned all he will ever do is hurt John, were correct. Even with the best intentions in mind, he can't seem to stop ruining John's life and branding him with scar after scar after scar of emotional trauma.

_Mary_ wouldn't do that to John, and it is with that thought in mind that he realizes he is truly not worthy of John Watson. He supposes he never was.

Still, for the rest of the night, it takes every ounce of will power not to pick up that phone.

* * *

><p>5.<p>

On the following Tuesday, Sherlock wakes up, drinks half a cup of bitter coffee, checks the blog for cases, and doesn't call John. On Wednesday, he forgoes the coffee and tries his hand at tea—fails—and then pointedly doesn't call John. Thursday and Friday are similar in that he watches telly for the entirety of both days and also on both days, does not call John.

By the time Saturday rolls around, he decides that the temptation is torture, so in a fit of temporary madness, he thrusts the sitting room windows open and dangles his phone over the pavement, prepared to drop it and bid adieu to any possibility of contact. Thankfully, however, his sense returns to him when he realizes he is about to smash his very expensive mobile into the street just to avoid the urge to make a phone call, and he pulls his arm back inside, closes the window, and goes to lie down on the sofa to clear his tangled thoughts.

That night when he goes to bed—which is to say, when he stares at the ceiling for three hours before eventually passing out from sheer exhaustion—he removes the battery from his mobile and tucks it under the couch cushion where he won't be tempted to use it.

Two hours later, he sneaks back downstairs to retrieve the battery. He almost wishes he hadn't though, because only twenty minutes after his battery is replaced, the phone buzzes with a new text. He doesn't read it until he is back upstairs, buried under sheets, alone save for his blueish-glowing mobile and whatever message lay in his inbox.

It's from John.

In the inky darkness of his room, he stares at the text with a heavy heart.

_**Are you awake? I want to know why you're ignoring me. Talk to me. Please. **_

For the next thirty minutes, he sits in bed with his knees pulled to his chest and his gradually-dying phone in his right hand, trying to think of a way to respond that will let John know _why _he's doing this without revealing too much. He spends hours upon hours typing a dozen messages phrased in every possible way, and sends precisely none of them.

_John, this is for your own good, you're better off with Mary. You don't need me anymore. _

_[UNSENT]_

_I hurt you so much, why would you still want me in your life?_

_[UNSENT]_

_I can't stand to be around you when you're with her because it hurts me to see how happy she makes you. I know it shouldn't, but it does. _

_[UNSENT]_

_I need to remember myself. I need to cast away all of these emotions and longings and useless desires so I can refocus on what matters. _

_[UNSENT]_

_Actually, I don't know what matters. You matter of course, but that defeats the whole point of discarding emotions then, doesn't it?_

_[UNSENT]_

_I hate that you love her so much._

_[UNSENT]_

_Why can't you love me the way you love her?_

_[UNSENT]_

_Why can't you love me?_

_[UNSENT]_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thanks for reading, lovelies! I'd love to know what you think, feedback is such a vital part of the writing process! **

**See you all next Sunday! X0X0 **


	3. Guidance

**A/N: Thanks again to all of you who gave feedback on the last chapter, it inspired me so much that I'm posting this two days early :) Hope you like it & don't forget to tell me what you think!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Guidance: <strong>__(noun) advice or information aimed at resolving a problem or difficulty._

_... _

_1._

The next evening, Sherlock decides that if he has to spend another night alone with his thoughts (and more specifically, his regrets) he'll go mad. So, with a heavy heart, he slips his coat haphazardly over his pyjamas, stomps into a pair of scuffed oxfords, and grudgingly hails a cab to a place he has never visited willingly: his brother's home.

On the ride over he reevaluates his decision, fingers tapping moodily against his knee in broken staccato, and wonders if this whole thing is going to be worth it. The fact that he is about to spend an entire evening with the bane of his existences speaks volumes on his growing desperation for company, and Sherlock hates admitting defeat. He briefly considers ordering the cabbie to turn back around, but images of his empty, desolate flat jump across his mind's eyes and he immediately decides that even the company of his brother is preferable to the unsettling stillness of his home.

_I'm stopping by. SH_

_I didn't hear a request in that message. What if I am entertaining guests? MH_

_You aren't. SH_

_It's rude to presume, brother. MH_

_It isn't a presumption if I'm correct. I'm 5 minutes away, so kindly rid yourself of your imaginary guests. SH_

_Manners, Sherlock. MH _

It isn't exactly a warm welcome, but Sherlock wasn't expecting one. He's well aware that Mycroft's message is his brother's roundabout way of saying 'feel free to come over', in the same way Mycroft undoubtedly knows that Sherlock's message is his roundabout way of saying 'I'm alone and I need help'. In the private corners of his mind, Sherlock decides he is quite lucky he and his brother are oddly in sync enough to understand what the empty pauses between the lines mean. He supposes it pays to be well-versed in the language of unspoken words.

…

Mycroft, thankfully, doesn't make a big deal of it, and merely crooks a silent brow when Sherlock shows up at his door with cigarettes in his shaky hand and misery written clear across his face. He simply says, "Come in, brother, I don't imagine you'd like to stay out there in the cold," and Sherlock drifts inside, tired and gloomy and more than a bit relieved.

Ten minutes later, they stand side by side on the balcony of Mycroft's office, smoking in silence.

Despite the serene noiselessness of the setting, Sherlock feels as if his mind is on the brink of implosion. Life without John, he realizes, is a life without peace. He'd grown so used to having the man's calming, steady presence at his side to balance him out and keep him grounded, that he nearly forgot what a life without John is like. In one word, it's hell. In two, it is _fucking_ hell.

He can't think straight or eat right or solve cases without John's hurt, confused expression floating before his eyes and making him sick to his stomach. Sherlock is well aware that he has no right to ignore John like this, especially since he's given the man no indication of why he is ignoring him in the first place, but the pain of seeing John with someone else is far too strong to overlook, and he can't yet bring himself to talk to him. Along with that keen stab of heartbreak, Sherlock also feels immeasurably guilty whenever he's around John, even more so now that he is acutely aware of how badly he destroyed John during those two long years. Memories of Molly's account drift hauntingly through his mind, painting dreadful images of a hollow-eyed John ambling through London like a ghost.

However, even though the shame and remorse chew at him like starving rats, Sherlock can't bring himself to regret his decision; John's life was on the line and he would've done anything to ensure his safety. Still, he understands that John is entitled to his feelings of anger and abandonment. He also understands that in his absence, John found someone else to place at the center of his universe; he found a new brilliant soul to dote upon. It only makes sense that he would seek another partner rather than sit around the flat, grieving uselessly over his supposedly deceased flat mate. Sherlock completely understands.

However, it is one thing to understand something logically and entirely another to understand something emotionally. Being the stupid, petty, heartsick human that he is, he believes that John has no right to parade Mary around like some sort of lovely prize. He believes that _he_ should have John Watson at his side, not Mary bloody Morstan. He believes that John is _his._

But unfortunately, reality does not agree.

"Is it difficult spending your life alone, Mycroft?" he asks into the silence. The crickets sing around the empty pause that follows and the wind continues to sigh mournfully through the trees. Mycroft takes a long drag and exhales deeply. Against the black backdrop of night, it looks as if his soul is spilling out of his mouth.

"I'm not alone, Sherlock," he answers eventually. "I have my work, my family, and my mind. There's hardly enough room in my sphere of existence for anything more than that."

Sherlock takes a deep, slow drag and lets the smoke circulate in his lungs. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Then clarify, brother."

_Love_, he wants to say. How does one live their life without love, knowing the splendor it has to offer? There was certainly a time when Sherlock would have scoffed at the notion of fearing loneliness, but that was back when all he knew was solitude; he never longed for company or the emotional fulfillment of a relationship because he'd always deemed those things useless, and it was quite easy to abstain from something that had never graced his existence. However, now that he has stepped to the other side of the spectrum and experienced this blessed (cursed) emotion, he hasn't the slightest idea how he can be expected to live without it. He wants to ask Mycroft, _how do you live like this? With no one?_

In the past few years his heart has grown of its own accord and now it is no longer content to remain empty; there is a surplus of room and only one person is fit to reside there, but thanks to Sherlock's star-crossed fate, that man already belongs to another.

"How does one live without a companion, is what I meant," he answers eventually.

Mycroft looks at him from the corner of his eye and takes another lazy pull from his cigarette. "I assume we're talking about your_ doctor_, correct?"

Sherlock quietly relishes the possessive pronoun_. His_ doctor. _His_ John. "Yes."

"Mm. Well, brother, I'm not sure I can provide useful advice, being that I've never encountered such a person or circumstance in my life. What you and Doctor Watson have is unique and exceedingly rare." He blows a curl of smoke into the night sky. "However I was under the impression that you didn't want much to do with John these days. You haven't spoken to him in more than a month, yes?"

Has it been a month? Christ, it's hard to tell. The days just seem to bleed into one another. "Yes, we haven't corresponded in some time."

"And why is that?"

Sherlock clenches his jaw and resolutely looks ahead. "Because it _hurts_. I hate that I lied to him for two years and every time I even think about John I can't help but feel filthy with guilt. I _destroyed _him, Mycroft, I don't deserve to have him in my life." Sherlock plucks the cigarette out of his mouth and paces restlessly across the balcony. "And then there's the whole issue with Mary. I just…I can't be around him and his _lovely_ fiancé and be expected to just smile and act as if I don't care that John is getting married soon and moving on with his life. I can't hold my tongue about Mary and I can't stop thinking about how much I want John_. I want him,_ Mycroft. I can't pretend not to."

There is a beat of silence before Mycroft evenly replies, "You can and you will pretend, Sherlock. That is, unless you'd like to lose John entirely."

The way his stomach dips at that notion makes the act of smoking feels repulsive, so he grinds the tip of his fag into the bannister and snuffs it out. There is ash on his fingertips. "Pardon?"

"It's quite simple, brother. You have two choices; you can assimilate to the situation and accept that Mary is going to be a permanent fixture in John's world _or_ you can rebel against John's choices and eventually force him out of your life for good. Either adapt or die, Sherlock, nature's rules."

Sherlock scowls, annoyed that his brother has reduced his situation to something so simple. As if any of this is _easy._ "And I suppose you think I'm a fool for worrying over this, don't you?" he asks sharply.

Mycroft gives him a sideways glance and very nearly rolls his eyes. "Sherlock, you're being defensive and paranoid. I do not think you are a fool, however I_ do_ think you're going about this quite foolishly. I understand that you feel guilty for deceiving John and I also understand that it is painful to be around him and his fiancé, but the fact of the matter is, you must deal with _both_ of those things if you have any intention of keeping him in your life."

"There has to be another option," Sherlock insists, still pacing restlessly, "You're oversimplifying things, Mycroft, this situation isn't so black and white."

With a tone bordering on exasperated, Mycroft replies, "Well I suppose you could die again. Perhaps fake your death every once and a while to renew his concern for you. That might _spice things up."_

"Don't be sarcastic about this, Mycroft," Sherlock snaps.

"Then don't ask questions you know the answer to," Mycroft retorts. "Of course there is no third option. I just told you what you can do, either take the advice or continue estranging John out of indecision. I don't care very much what you do."

There is a long beat of silence in which Sherlock clenches and unclenches his jaw and Mycroft calmly lights his second cigarette. Eventually, his brother breaks the silence with a cool, measured tone. "Make a definite decision and stick with it, Sherlock. Do not be hesitant because hesitance leads to inaction and inaction results in failure. You are not someone who is made to fail, so I suggest either fighting for John's friendship or setting it free. None of this 'in between' rubbish."

"That's quite easy for you to say," Sherlock bites, "_you've_ never felt pain like this."

His brother lifts his shoulder in mimicry of a shrug. "Perhaps that is true. However that has no bearing on the fact that you are exceedingly poor at handling conflict, brother."

Sherlock glares. "At least I don't eat my pain"

Mycroft smiles blandly. "And at least I do not smoke mine."

That statement makes Sherlock immediately scoff in disbelief. "Kindly step off your high horse, Mycroft, you have a cigarette in your mouth as we speak."

"Yes, but unlike you, I smoke to my victories. And at the moment my life is something of a success so I've decided to indulge."

"Well isn't that lovely for you. Would you like a prize? Perhaps another useless certificate to add to Mummy's fridge back home?"

Mycroft just lifts a brow, looking amused. "Don't bring Mummy into this, Sherlock, you know that road only leads to pettiness. Anyhow, as it turns out, I already have a prize."

Sherlock gives him a dry look. "Oh really? Pray tell."

Mycroft's expression turns serious. He snubs his cigarette into the cement railing of the balcony, looking thoughtful. "You, Sherlock."

Sherlock stops glaring and freezes, his mind halting at the unexpected response. "What does that mean?"

"I mean that my greatest victory, my greatest achievement, is you, Sherlock: who you've evolved from and who you are today. I've always taken a great personal interest in you—and at times a great personal investment—because I know you have good things on your horizon. There have of course been obstacles, such as your drug addiction and refusal to do what I ask simply to spite me, but in the end I've never doubted that there will be something worthwhile at the end of your 'path', so to speak. I can't put my finger on what that is exactly, but I know that there is solace there. Perhaps even contentment. I smoke to my victories because you have surpassed all expectations I had for you in the best of ways; I know I've always told you that caring is not an advantage—and it isn't—but it is also an unavoidable human flaw, and you've not only learned to live with it, you've also learned to thrive in spite of it.

"I'm telling you these things not to embarrass you, or shame you, or make you feel guilty, I'm telling you these things because I'd like you to know that my advice comes from a place of sincerity. I want to see you succeed in every endeavor you embark on and, more importantly, I want you to have contentment in your life; in this case, your friendship with John hangs in the balance and since I am well aware of how vital he is to you, I caution you to do everything in your power to ensure he remains a part of your life. I understand the heartache that inevitably comes along with that decision, but the choice essentially boils down to whether you're willing to endure that pain in exchange for John's companionship or not. Only you can decide that, Sherlock."

There isn't much to say in response to something so unprecedented from his brother, so Sherlock just braces himself against the bannister and stares blankly ahead. "I…I thought you said you don't care what I do," he says eventually.

Moonlight winks over the surface of Mycroft's dark eyes. He smirks without malice. "I lied. Us Holmeses are not exactly known for telling the truth, are we?"

Despite how difficult he always expected it to be, when he finally comes around to expressing gratitude the words come rather easily. "Well, thank you, brother, that was…" he searches his suddenly barren vocabulary for the proper word, "nice."

Mycroft scrunches his nose. "Come now, Sherlock, Mummy isn't around, no need for such sentimental language."

Sherlock huffs an awkward laugh and Mycroft gives him a faint smile in return, and Sherlock thinks that this is what the rest of the world must mean when they say 'brotherly companionship'. It's a strange sensation but not an entirely unwelcome one. He is by no means under the impression that this single moment will reconstruct the dynamic of their entire relationship, but it has certainly allowed a bit of understanding to slide into place. Comfortable silence settles over them like a fine layer of snow and the quiet, relative peace sets Sherlock's tense shoulders at ease.

Sherlock knows with absolute certainty that Mycroft is right about John; Sherlock can either accept his choices and be a part of his life or fight them and risk losing John forever. Although a life with married John will be difficult and extremely painful, a life with _no_ John is the kind of existence he'd rather die than endure.

Besides, by ignoring John he's not only hurting himself, he's hurting John as well, and he has caused the man enough pain already. It is time to stop hiding behind excuses and fear and finally confront this situation head-on. It's time to paste on a smile and make things work.

Sherlock looks up at the stars, a feeling of acceptance settling in his chest. "I've got to start pretending now, don't I?"

Mycroft sighs and brushes ash from his hands. "Adapt or die, Sherlock. Adapt or die."

* * *

><p>2.<p>

That night before bed, he worries that it's too late to completely rectify things between them—perhaps John has grown tired of waiting—but then the next morning his fears are assuaged when he opens his laptop to yet another new email from John. Hope flutters desperately in his chest as he hungrily devours every word.

_From: JohnnyWats221 _

_To: SHolmes-ScienceofDeduction _

_Subject: talk to me, you git_

_You haven't been answering your phone or replying to texts for about a month now and at this point I'm getting desperate, Sherlock. If you fail to respond to this email (which I've specifically sent to your work inbox so you'll have to see it) then my next option is a carrier pigeon. After that, two tin cans and a string. And if you still refuse to speak to me, I'll have no choice but to scale the walls and break into the flat through a window, possibly throwing out my back in the process._

_Please, Sherlock. I miss you, alright? Talk to me. _

_-John _

Sherlock soaks in the richness of every word: the slight humor, the pleading, the admissions, and the unabashed sincerity. He can practically hear John as he reads and the phantom sound of his friend's voice is more comforting than he expects. After a minute, Sherlock takes a deep breath and carefully constructs a reply, mindful of keeping his tone as neutral as possible. Something nervous and excited wriggles in his chest at the notion of seeing John again and he feels like a bottle of pop shaken to the point of near-explosion.

_From:  JohnnyWats221_

_To: SHolmes-ScienceofDeduction _

_Subject: [no subject] _

_You'd hardly throw out your back, John. You have remarkable climbing skills. However if you'd still like to break in, the door will be unlocked and I'll be home tomorrow around noon. I can make tea too if you'd like. _

_Oh, and kindly refrain from sending any pigeons. I don't care for birds. _

_SH_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thanks so much for reading, lovelies! Let me know what you guys think, hearing your feedback really helps speed the writing process along :) Updates will be on Sundays (and occasionally a few days early if my schedule allows it) so don't forget to subscribe! **

**Until next time, darlings! XOXO**


	4. Apology

**A/N: Sorry for the late update guys, I spent the past two days on the beach with my cousins, which was wonderful because I desperately needed a stress-free weekend. Thank you again to everyone who commented and offered feedback, it was you guys who inspired me to polish off this chapter and finally post it. :) **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Apology:<strong>__ (noun) a written or spoken expression of one's regret for having insulted, failed, injured, or wronged another_.

. . .

1.

The night before John's arrival, Sherlock falls asleep at one am and rises only three hours later, feeling restless and jittery as if there are bees buzzing beneath his skin. He tries to compose but the instrument in his hands feels hollow and the notes are unmalleable and stiff, so he attempts to conduct an impromptu experiment on ficuses, only to discover his fledgling plants expired sometime last week when he apparently forgot to water them. The dusky, quiet morning is looking quite bleak, so to stave off the urge to do something reckless (like procuring a gun and shooting holes is his valiantly-healing wallpaper), he sets about organizing the flat.

Sherlock isn't sure what sort of appearance he should be endeavoring to uphold, but just in case he's supposed to seem 'collected and untroubled,' he tidies up and makes sure everything is in its designated place. It wouldn't do to let John see the chaotic mess his life has descended into, and the piles of untouched dishes and angrily-torn case files are plain evidence of that fact.

Only after he has hoovered the carpet, dusted the furniture, and organized his haphazard, cluttered bookshelf, does he realize that by cleaning up he is making it glaringly obvious that something is wrong; rendering the flat pristine is not a sign of his glowing mental health, it's a clear indication that his life without John became so shambolic and terrible that it necessitated a thorough cleaning—in short, the exact _opposite_ of what he would like to convey. The last thing he wants is for John to realize how useless and needy he has been.

With that in mind, Sherlock takes all of the books back out of order, bends them at odd angles, and leaves them lying around the sitting room, making it seem as if he, enamored with his endlessly thrilling novels, simply had too much going on to bother placing the books back where they belonged; after that, he takes sample #8 of his ash experiment and sprinkles it across the carpet, rubbing it in with his heel to give the appearance of moderate filth without making it seem too unkempt; and finally, he completes the image by mussing up the couch cushions and carefully blotting a coffee stain onto the arm of his chair.

He surveys the charmingly disheveled sitting room and nods his approval. The flat says _See, I am not terribly pathetic without you, but I'm also not entirely content either._ It says _I had plenty to do in the time we spent apart, but I will happily make room for you in my schedule because you are incredibly significant to me. _And most importantly, it says _Remember the pleasant hominess of this flat? The comfortable mess, the warm atmosphere? Remember the good times we had here? Don't you miss it?_

_Don't you want to come home?_

Sherlock shakes his head and derails that last train of thought. It won't do to think like that. The point of this meeting is not to persuade John to move back—unfortunately that is not on the table unless he'd like Mary to come along as well, which he most assuredly _doesn't_—it is about apologizing to John and making an effort to fit in the small corner of John's life he has been allotted. It is important that he doesn't say a single harsh word about Mary unless it's in reference to the cruel things he spat outside the coffee house a month ago, and even then, such utterances will only be discussed for the sake of penitence, not ill will. His plan is to apologize for ignoring John's attempts at contact and excuse himself by saying he simply 'needed some time to himself'. He'll keep things light by asking how Mary has been, perhaps make boring Smalltalk to put John at ease, and then, once comfortable companionship has settled over them once more, he'll say something witty and needle-sharp (and perhaps blunt too) to break whatever remaining tension is simmering in the air. John will giggle all high pitched and endearing and Sherlock's mouth will tick up in an amused smile, and before either of them know it they'll both be laughing at the utter absurdity of each other just like old times.

Despite the faint thread of anxiety shivering inside his chest, Sherlock feels reasonably in control; he has nearly every aspect of this meeting planned out and for once there are no surprise variables that might pop up. It's just him, John, and a series of apologies.

Sherlock sighs and stares out the window, willing John to arrive sooner.

* * *

><p>2.<p>

At precisely 11:59, the familiar thud of John's footsteps on the stairs blesses Sherlock's ears but he hardly has time to relish the sound before the door opens (vaguely hesitantly, but otherwise quite confidently) and reveals the object of his affections, the owner of innumerable terrible jumpers, and the man who has resided at the center of his universe from the minute he met him.

"Er, hello," John says with a small smile. "It's been a while, yeah?"

All at once, Sherlock's resolve to keep a polite distance for the initial portion of their meeting dissolves into nothing. He can't help the gush of relief that crashes through him like a flood and he is equally helpless to the genuine smile that breaks across his face, shattering any pretense of cool distance. "John," he breathes and it sounds like a sigh. He rises from his chair and hurries over to the door to take John's coat, which he immediately realizes is ridiculous because when John lived here they never used the coatrack, save for the one time Sherlock was forced to use it as a weapon against a rather unwelcome intruder. However, Sherlock finds that he needs something to do with his hands and hanging John's jacket is a perfect way to occupy himself while he endeavors to reassemble the previously unshakable plan he spent all morning formulating. John seems to recognize the detective's need for a moment to regain composure, so he happily hands over the clothing and makes his way further into the sitting room, admiring the space as if it were an exhibit in a museum.

"Just as it always was," John murmurs to himself, sounding both awed and nostalgic. He smiles affectionately at the sight of their two chairs, posed in the exact arrangement they might be in if he and Sherlock were occupying them and facing each other, engrossed in a deep conversation. His dark eyes wander along the knick-knacks on the fireplace, the artful chaos of the evidence wall, and the stacks of case files splayed across the coffee table.

Sherlock has so much to say that his chest is positively aching with the volume of it, but as most of the pronouncements involve either begging John to return or spilling his messy, tangled emotions at John's feet (and neither of those would be particularly beneficial to the current situation), he bites his tongue. With steely reserve, Sherlock firmly shoves those urges deep down and refuses to entertain them.

"John, it's very good to see you. I…I missed you quite dearly," Sherlock says instead, turning away from the coatrack to face him, not caring in the slightest that his expression probably looks just as earnest as he feels. He didn't realize how badly he missed John until he was standing right before Sherlock, smiling a little unsurely, with his beautiful eyes and endlessly endearing mannerisms.

Something equally genuine rushes across John's face when he replies, "Yeah, I missed you too." He exhales steadily through his nose and raises his eyes to meet Sherlock's. "A lot, actually. Couldn't sleep or function properly this whole month."

He doesn't intend for the truth to roll off his tongue, but it does. "Me neither."

The sparkling lightheartedness evaporates from the air and quite suddenly Sherlock feels the urge to stalk over to John and embrace him hard enough that their bones crush together and their hearts slam in sync.

"John, shall we sit?" he asks, forcing his voice not to shake. John nods and sinks into his chair, a look of wistfulness briefly flitting across his features at the familiar sensation.

Sherlock sits stiffly in his own chair, his mind suddenly as blank as a sheet of paper. He can't recall what he planned to happen next, words are occurring to him just as quickly as they are leaving him, and the silence of the room is beginning to feel more oppressive than peaceful. After what feels like a decade of just sitting there, actively avoiding the other's gaze, the universe seems to take pity on them and the phone rings. The sound is loud and shrill in the quiet flat, but it effectively cuts through the unbearable stillness like a knife, so even though Sherlock wastes a trip to the kitchen only to find the caller is an obnoxious salesman peddling refrigerators, he is grateful for the interruption nonetheless.

When he puts the phone on the counter and returns to the sitting room, John seems to have thawed as well, because the moment Sherlock sits down, he says, "You wouldn't talk to me for a month. Why?"

Surprisingly, his tone is neither angry nor particularly distressed. It is perhaps a little hurt and somewhat frustrated, but more than anything John just sounds overwhelmingly neutral. Sherlock finds it incredibly unsettling to be unable to read him.

However, before Sherlock has the chance to begin, John puckers his brow and follows up with, "It's because you dislike Mary isn't it?"

This is the hard part. "I…" he starts, eyes dropping to John's shoulder, "I do not dislike Mary. I know it doesn't seem that way considering what I said on the pavement that day, but I truly bear no ill will towards her, John." Even to his own ears, his voice sounds too mechanic. It lacks inflection and sincerity, and although John is certainly no consulting detective it doesn't take a genius to recognize the hollowness of his words.

"Oh?" John says sharply. "So, what, you just said those things on a whim?"

"No."

"Then _why,_ Sherlock. Speak."

The lie feels like poison when it leaves his tongue. "I…wasn't thinking."

"You weren't thinking?" John repeats slowly, his anger finally makes its appearance. Sherlock is actually a bit relieved because it's far easier to deal with a furious John than a curiously blank one. At least now he'll know where he stands. "You _weren't thinking?_ Since when do you not think when you say something, Sherlock? Every damn thing to leave your lips has some sort of purpose, no matter how small, so there's absolutely no way those things you told me were said meaningless," John bites, eyes hard and dark like obsidian. "No, there was another reason. You called her deplorable, Sherlock. You said she'd never be able to give me what I want. You said horrible, bloody awful things about my fiancé and if you didn't say those things because you hate her, then why the hell else would you say them? Don't bother trying to tell me that you just said them because you buggering _felt like it_, because there was unmistakable intent to your words, Sherlock, there was a blunt edge to everything you said and you never make such serious statements lightly. Hell—I punched you in the nose because of it! There was an end to your means and it sure as hell wasn't just because you _didn't think it bloody through._"

The temptation to just blurt out the truth—_it's because I'm disgustingly jealous of Mary and can't stand that she gets to have you—_is nearly overwhelming. Sherlock has to physically bite down on his tongue to refrain from saying anything aloud. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, all too aware of John's shaky, infuriated form practically emitting waves of anger next to him.

With renewed resolve, Sherlock swallows and summons the lines he spent all morning rehearsing. "The truth is I…I needed time for myself, John. I only returned to London a few months ago and there are still many things I have to face within myself before I can surround myself with people I care about. I spoke harshly about Mary in an attempt to drive you away, ensuring my own solitude. I didn't mean what I said. She is not deplorable. In fact, I'm…I'm happy for you. For the both of you."

As Sherlock speaks, he realizes that there is a small grain of truth in what he is saying. What happened during those two years was scarring (both physically and mentally) and it _is_ important that he set aside time to deal with his 'demons'. Of course, the more traumatizing internal conflict has to do with his unrequited love, not his distress over what transpired while he was dismantling Moriarty's web, but since he cannot divulge the truth to John, this explanation will have to suffice. There is also some measure of accuracy in his statement regarding Mary; although he did mean it when he told John that Mary will never be enough for him, he doesn't _hate_ her. He is just terribly, irrevocably jealous of her.

Conflicting emotions war on John's face, one side demanding that he soften his words and comfort Sherlock, the other shrewdly noting the omission of truth in the detective's statement. But because John Watson is the kind person that he is, he ends up entertaining the former. "Sherlock," he says at length, a note of unwavering empathy in his tone, "I'm sorry that you felt like that. I can't even begin to imagine the things you faced during those two years and I wish I could somehow erase that pain. But…but you have to understand that I went through a dreadful time, too. My best friend was dead and the world seemed bleak and pointless. I felt as if I was a dead man walking half the time and the other half I just wanted to sleep away the misery." John runs a tired hand down his face and leaves it there for a moment, covering his eyes while he takes a deep breath. "We didn't really talk about this enough when you came back, we just sort of glossed over it and tried to move on, but that didn't really work did it?"

John's eyes grow solemn and he scoots closer to Sherlock, his body perched on the very edge of his chair. "Listen, the reason I'm saying this is because I want you to recognize that when I say what I'm about to say I am in no way degrading your emotions. They are completely valid. I just…I just don't understand why we couldn't have worked through them together. Like I said, it was a shitty two years for both of us, so doesn't it make sense that we'd help each other heal instead of isolating ourselves and making everything that much worse? I don't know about you, but there was nothing healing or helpful about not talking to you for four weeks, Sherlock. I was a miserable, pathetic sod and I could hardly bother to get off my arse and go to work most days. It hurt like bloody hell too because I didn't understand why I was being ignored. It never occurred to me that you were trying to mend yourself and conquer internal conflict. Now that I know what you were going through, I'm sorry. I should have tried to understand better. I should've been more patient."

Guilt clings like stalagmites to Sherlock's insides, his chest a hollow cave glittering with shame. John is so goodhearted and kind that he thinks that he was selfish for not being understanding of Sherlock's 'healing' process, when in reality _Sherlock _is the selfish one who hid away in the shadows just to avoid the pain of seeing John with someone else. He can't stand it.

"John, there is nothing to apologize for: you didn't know. I myself am terribly sorry that I hurt you by isolating myself and I shouldn't have said those things about Mary. It was uncalled for and cruel. I do hope you'll forgive me."

John's mouth remains pressed in a line, but his eyes regain their warmth and his expression softens. "I'll forgive you a thousand times over if you do one thing for me, Sherlock," he says.

It doesn't even occur to Sherlock to refuse John's terms. He says yes as soon as John poses the question.

John takes a deep breath and, shockingly, takes Sherlock's hand in his. His navy-blue eyes look deep and imploring. "Sherlock, please, for my sake, make an effort to get on with Mary. It's important to me that you at least tolerate her. She's my fiancé and you're my best friend and I desperately want you to like her, okay? All I want is for you to _try_. If you can do that for me then all is forgiven."

Sherlock knew this was going to be expected of him from the get-go, but his heart constricts nonetheless. "Yes, John, of course. I'll try again."

"Thank you," John breathes.

His heart stutters and stops in his chest when John releases his hand and pulls him into a long embrace, his hands fisted in the back of Sherlock's shirt. As if by muscle memory, Sherlock instinctively pulls John closer. He smells like cinnamon and laundry soap and something earthy and indiscernible, something that is entirely John. Despite the fact that he's never hugged John like this before—for such a long period of time and with such fierceness—the embrace feels completely natural, as if they've done this kind of thing every day. Since neither seem inclined to pull away, Sherlock tightens his grip on John and _very_ slightly nuzzles the side of his face against John's hair, humming a low note of approval. He doesn't even have the chance to wonder if it's too much because John simply sighs in response, sounding about as relieved and content as Sherlock feels.

When they finally break apart a few moments (or millennia) later, Sherlock's eyes settle on John's outfit with a note of interest. "I like your jumper," he praises, looking appreciatively at the light blue clothing.

John crooks an eyebrow. "Well you did buy it for me, I should think you like it."

"Oh, that's right, it was for your birthday two years ago I believe," he recalls. "Either way, I still think it's a lovely jumper." He smirks. "What can I say, John? I have impeccably good taste."

John snorts in amusement. "Do you now?"

Sherlock's smile grows crooked, his eyes dimming from jocular to sincere. "Well I'm friends with you, aren't I?"

The creases around John's eyes grow more pronounced as he smiles in return, all soft edges and warm colors. "Yeah, you are. I'm glad."

After that, John changes the subject to the most recent case Lestrade presented Sherlock, pointing out that he really ought to help the poor sod out because there is no way anyone at the Yard will realize that 810 is not the area code of the killer, but the mailbox address of the victim. Sherlock complains about Anderson's incompetence and John pretends to chide him all the while suppressing a peal of laughter, and the two of them banter and converse as if it's two years ago and nothing has changed.

They spend the rest of the afternoon talking about new cases and reminiscing on old ones, hardly noticing the sun's gradual descent or the fluid passing of time.

* * *

><p><em><strong>So you're sure about this, then? <strong>_

_Of course, John. I meant what I said. I'm willing to try. SH_

_**You don't know how much this means, Sherlock. Thank you. The address is **__**377 Edgeware Rd, Mary and I will be there at 1pm. **_

_I'll see you then, John. SH_

* * *

><p>3.<p>

They try again two weeks later at another quaint restaurant with a one page menu and an impossibly small staff. Sherlock wonders if Mary has a particular fondness for cafes or if John somehow thinks that a smaller environment will make this whole exchange easier. Sherlock supposes it doesn't particularly matter because either way he's still _here_, seated next to John and across from Mary at a little square table by a window, wondering what on earth to say.

When the server pops by, Mary orders a cup of decaffeinated coffee and a blueberry muffin, John chooses a slice of chocolate pie and tea, and Sherlock politely declines the offer of breakfast entirely.

"Sherlock, love, it's my treat! Help yourself." Mary coos after the waiter has gone, placing her hand over his in what she surely intends to be a comforting, welcoming gesture.

Sherlock forces a smile and removes his hand under the pretense of stretching his fingers. "Thank you, Mary, but really, I'm fine. As John can tell you, I don't eat much."

John playfully nudges his shoulder into Sherlock's. "Not unless I'm there feeding you up, you great bony git. I swear you've lost weight since you've been living on your own."

"Hardly. I'm quite sure my weight has not changed, John," Sherlock replies.

John stares accusingly at the exposed vee of skin at the top of his shirt and frowns at the sharp collarbones protruding there. "Speaking of which, how many square meals do you eat each day, Sherlock? And don't lie, I can tell when you're fibbing."

Strangely, Sherlock feels the ice in his chest begin to thaw at John's familiar nagging. "Three, just as you've told me to eat, _Mother."_

"Now that," John says with bright eyes, "was a lie. Go on, tell me the truth."

He pretends to be put out, but in truth he feels impossibly pleased to know that John still cares about inane minutia like this. It's strangely comforting. "I eat now and then when the cases aren't particularly interesting. Most of the time, though, Mrs. Hudson stops by with a meal."

"Ah. And she's still claiming not to be our housekeeper?" John asks with a grin. Sherlock's heart clenches around the word _our _but he does his best to look unaffected.

"Of course," he drawls, "Much in the same way that Mycroft is still not overweight and Anderson is still not an absolute fool." To Sherlock's utmost delight, John chuckles at that, and the sound is enough to set Sherlock's blood ablaze within his veins. There are champagne bubbles under his skin. Warmth floods his chest and his heart explodes like a firework.

For a moment, it's as if they're back at Baker Street, sitting across from each other at the breakfast table or side by side on the sofa, sharing jokes and familiar banter.

Then reality comes crashing in when Mary seamlessly wedges herself back into the conversation.

"Speaking of cases, have there been any interesting ones lately, Sherlock?" Mary inquires, her eyes sparkling with interest. Sherlock takes a long drink of water and lets her wait for a reply until she looks vaguely uncomfortable.

"Yes," he says, after a sufficiently awkward amount of silence has passed. At John's expectant look, he reluctantly elaborates. "Er, there have been two murders in the past month and one theft. Surprisingly, the theft was the most interesting."

"Ooh, tell us about it then!" She insists. She looks like a caricature with her head tilted dramatically to the side and her chin cupped in her hand. All that's missing are a few cartoon question marks floating over her head and then she'd be the complete epitome of overly enthusiastic curiosity.

He almost wants to take another drink just to make her wait more, but since he doesn't particularly care for water and John looks like he wants to hear what Sherlock has to say, he decides against stalling. "Last week a man reported theft, certain that the perpetrator was a colleague of his. However as it turned out, it was the man's supposedly 'doting and loving' wife who had been siphoning from his account for more than a decade and using the money to purchase a variety of drugs. With a little investigating I managed to find ten thousand pounds worth of Cocaine and Heroin that she'd hidden beneath a loose floorboard in their bedroom. It was hardly a clever hiding spot, though, which was somewhat disappointing."

"Brilliant, Sherlock, how'd you find it?" John exclaims at the same times Mary asks "They let you on drug cases?"

It takes Mary only a second to catch herself and immediately look contrite. "I am so sorry, I don't know where that came from. It's just, John's told me you struggled with_—that_ in the past and I imagine it must be very difficult to be around so much temptation." She clears her throat. "But that's none of my business, my apologies."

Sherlock raises a brow. Something dark and mean inside him relishes the misstep. _See, John, she isn't so flawless after all. _

"I deal with drugs quite often because it comes with the territory, but I haven't indulged for years. Thankfully John has never known that side of me, and since I am quite steadfast in my sobriety, he never will."

"Yes, of course," Mary nods. "Again, apologies, I always end up with my foot in my mouth at some point during a conversation, especially when I'm a bit nervous." She giggles uneasily, consoled only when John places a kind hand over hers.

"Nervous?" Sherlock questions neutrally. "Why?"

"Well, it's just, John is always talking about how incredible and wonderful you are and he just thinks so highly of you…and, well, I desperately want us to get along. It's a bit daunting to meet with someone as brilliant as you, Sherlock."

A conflicting series of emotions pass through Sherlock like the scenery outside a car window. First there's a warm flush at the thought that John speaks so kindly of him, then a flicker of triumph at Mary's unease, but in the end he realizes that no matter what John thinks of him it'll still be far less than what he thinks of Mary; Sherlock can receive all of the consolation prizes he wants but it'll always be _Mary_ who takes residence in John's heart.

With a tight smile Sherlock simply says, "No need to be nervous, John thinks the world of you, Mary. I couldn't dream of measuring up to you. In fact, if anyone's to be nervous, it should be me."

And then Mary grins, John gives him a questioning look, and Sherlock hides his trembling lips behind a long drink of water.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thank you so much for reading, guys! Feedback would be beautiful :)**

**Until next Sunday, lovelies! X0X0 **


	5. Challenge

**A/N: Thanks guys for the amazing feedback! This ended up a little longer than I expected, but I doubt that'll be a problem for you guys ;)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Challenge:<strong>__ (noun) difficulty in a job or undertaking that is stimulating to one engaged in it._

_. . ._

1.

_One week later: _

"Sherlock, are you listening?"

"Of course, John, please continue," Sherlock encourages, balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder. Talking to John is always a treat, but talking to John _and _dissecting the large mound of intestines Molly gave him as an 'early birthday present' is practically Christmas. He slowly cuts into the ascending colon, careful not to jostle his arm enough to drop the phone.

"Well, Mary's going out of town for a few days to visit her sister and I was wondering if it would be alright if I stay with you at Baker Street? Oh and don't worry about space, I can sleep on the sofa."

Sherlock perks up, pleasantly surprised by John's request. "Of course, John, you can always come over. And nonsense about the sofa, your bedroom is just as it was, you can sleep there."

There's a brief pause on John's end and then a blur of words, but Sherlock hardly registers any of it as he is at a pivotal point in his experiment and cannot afford distractions. He carefully positions his knife at the entrance of the sigmoid colon, slowly drawing the blade down. Two slashes later, an unidentified dark liquid oozes out of the pyloric sphincter and Sherlock immediately recognizes it as the answer to his hypothesis. He drips some of the goo onto a slide and examines it under his microscope, both annoyed and thrilled to find the solution is what he least suspected. "Of _course_, why didn't it occur to me sooner!" he exclaims, placing his scalpel flat on the table. "It wasn't in the steak, the poison was in the _wine_—Christ I'm blind. Really must call Lestrade about this…"

"Sherlock? Still with me?"

"Hm? Oh, my apologies, John. I just made a rather conclusive discovery that has just tied up my latest case quite neatly. What was that you just said?" He readjusts the phone by lifting his shoulder, making his way over to the sink to wash his hands.

"I said, you haven't cleaned out my room yet?"

Sherlock scoffs. "No, of course not. Why would I?"

"Well, to get another flat mate, I suppose. Or to use the extra space as storage."

What John is suggesting is not unreasonable—in fact it's incredibly practical—but for some reason the thought of replacing or moving any part of John's room for someone else's use sends Sherlock's heart plummeting to his feet. As ridiculous and sentimental as it is, that room is the last piece of John that belongs solely to him and he'd sooner burn down the entire flat than alter it in any way.

"I have enough space around the flat for my things and I never plan to have another flat mate. You're irreplaceable, John."

Self-deprecating as usual, John insists otherwise. "I'm really not, Sherlock. I'm just as ordinary as the rest."

Sherlock silently marvels at that fact that John still has no understanding of his own importance. John is a single glittering star within an otherwise dull universe and no one will ever outshine him; to search for a better flat mate—or even a better friend—would be pointless because no such person exists.

Sherlock turns on the sink and scrubs his hands beneath the cold tap. "The superior man is modest in his speech, but exceeds in his actions," he quotes.

"Who said that?"

"Confucius. The point is, despite what you seem to think, you are unique, John." Sherlock finds that the words are surprisingly easy to confess. He's never been particularly skilled in expressing his emotions, but in this case the truth just rolls right off his tongue. "You are kind, brave, patient, and intelligent, and you never cease to amaze me."

"Sherlock, I—" he stops himself and starts again. "Thank you."

Sherlock smiles to himself and turns off the sink, drying his hands and finally removing the phone from its uncomfortable perch. About time, too, his neck was starting to get a crick. "What time would you like to come over tomorrow?"

"What time is good for you? Mary is leaving at two pm."

"Then come at two-thirty," Sherlock suggests, not caring that he sounds eager. "I don't have anything important on for tomorrow, so I'll just be here."

He relishes the smile in John's voice when he replies, "Smashing. I'll see you then."

* * *

><p>2.<p>

Preceding John's arrival the next day, Sherlock prepares a rather impressive spread for lunch (thanks to the eager assistance of Mrs. Hudson, of course) and makes a point of wearing his best clothes. Typically, fashion falls to the bottom of his list of 'important matters', but since he knows John favors his plum-colored button down shirt paired with the black blazer, he makes a point of dressing with John's tastes in mind. At precisely 2:30 on the dot, there's a knock at the door. As Sherlock heads over to answer it, he smiles to himself at John's ingrained military punctuality.

"Come in," he greets, immeasurably pleased to find that John is wearing the lovely navy-blue jumper that brings out his eyes. "I made lunch."

John steps into the flat and stares at the feast on the coffee table with wide eyes. "You sure did," he agrees dazedly. "Christ, is all this food for the two of us? You really didn't have to go through the trouble…"

Sherlock waves it away and ushers him into the sitting room, divesting him of his jacket in the process. "Nonsense, John, it took no time at all. Mrs. Hudson was in one of her cooking moods and I had already wrapped up my latest case. I assure you, it was no trying task. Here, take a seat. I made custard tarts."

. . .

An hour into it, Lestrade thrusts the door open without knocking and cuts off the hilarious anecdote John is in the middle of telling. The DI is halfway through reciting a case, when his eyes land on the lunch he is clearly interrupting and he stops short, looking sheepish.

"Er—hello, John," he says awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. "Didn't realize Sherlock had company, I'll just come back some other time…"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, don't stop a case on my account," John protests, standing from his chair with a look of determination. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock casts a measuring glance between John and Lestrade, trying to deduce whether John genuinely wants to interrupt their lunch or not. From the angle of his jaw and the set of his shoulders, he seems eager enough. Besides, the two of them haven't taken a case together in two years and it's about time they get back to it.

Satisfied with his deductions, Sherlock tears his focus away from John and faces Lestrade. "We'll take it. I see this case is particularly difficult judging by the stress-induced perspiration stains under your armpits, so kindly explain it in the most detail possible."

Lestrade has to purse his lips to physically hold back an indignant reply and his left eyes ticks a bit (as it is wont to do under duress), but he valiantly powers through with the debriefing—though he _does _plaster his arms to his body in order to make the stains less apparent. "Four people have been killed in the past two days, all the victims are unrelated in every discernable sense, there was no murder weapon at any of the crimes, the killer managed to avoid leaving a single trace of evidence, and the causes of death were all different. Poison, gunshot, slit throat, and tampered medicine. The only reason we're inclined to believe these deaths are linked at all is because each person has died within ten hours of the last person, unfailingly, and there's no way that's just a coincidence. At the moment, we're looking into the latest death, Sydney Carmichael, a seventy-something year old chap in retirement. Interested?"

Sherlock puts down his tea with an audible clink and rises from his chair, seconds behind John who is already standing and staring hungrily at the door. "Text me the address and we'll meet you there."

* * *

><p>3.<p>

As they stand outside the flat, flagging down cabs, Sherlock can't help but notice the vague aura of hesitation surrounding John. Almost as if something is troubling him. Sherlock stares at his profile with keen eyes as they stand on the pavement waiting for the car to pull up, dissecting the minutia of his breathing patterns, pupil dilatation, and stance. By the time they step inside the car, Sherlock has it figured out.

"Mary's told you that you shouldn't come with me on cases," he states casually once they're seated inside. He averts his gaze to his phone, pretending to research something.

"She told you?"

Sherlock purses his lips, minutely disappointed that he was correct. Shot in the dark and all.

"No, but it was hardly a difficult deduction. Judging by the contrast between the eagerness in your eyes and the hesitance of your gait, it's clear something is preventing you from thoroughly enjoying this like you usually do. Can't be the case itself as this is at least an 8.5; it isn't your sudden aversion to danger either because I've felt your pulse three separate times in the past twenty minutes and it indicates that you still glean a considerable adrenalin rush from this activity; I highly doubt it has anything to do with your own personal reservations about the gore involved because you are far from squeamish and I've kept things that are twice as gruesome in our fridge for the past several years; thus, I am forced to conclude that it is an external source who has made you hesitant towards cases. The only people with strong enough influence over you are your friends, family, and love interests, and since your mates think it's 'cool', Harry doesn't care, and your parents are not around to pass judgment, it must be your significant other."

Sherlock clears his throat and pointedly looks out the window. "Mary, to be specific. She doesn't care for my line of work and prefers that you do not get yourself tangled up in it."

"Sherlock…"

"Well, it's true isn't it? That's why you haven't come out with me until now: Mary always insists that you don't go."

"Mary…Mary doesn't understand us. She doesn't understand_ this_," John says with a note of frustration clear in his voice. Sherlock tears his gaze away from the passing scenery and looks John in the eyes.

"And what _is_ 'this'?" Sherlock questions.

To his surprise, John doesn't shy away from the question; instead, he returns Sherlock's steady gaze and easily replies, "Me and you. The way we work. She doesn't get that you're incredibly important to me and she doesn't get why _this_—the crimes, the chase, the cases—is what we enjoy doing with each other. She thinks it's all mad."

Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek and places his hand on the seat, abundantly aware of the scant distance between their fingers. "And do you think it's mad?"

At that, John's face blooms into a grin. "Of course it's mad. But so am I and so are you." He crosses the few inches of distance and sets his hand over Sherlock's, giving his upturned palm a brief squeeze. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

A small smile works its way across Sherlock's face, and even after John removes his hand, the warmth lingers on Sherlock's skin for the rest of the ride.

. . .

The entire Yard is standing in the street outside of Sydney Carmichaels' retirement home, there is no discernible evidence to be examined, and _nothing_ about this case is making sense.

"I don't _get it_," Sherlock growls, pacing back and forth with his hands alternatively tugging at his hair and gesticulating wildly. "There is not a single common factor among all four victims, yet they've been killed in perfect succession since yesterday evening. First death, an unimportant business man with a string of gay lovers, second death, a middle aged housewife with a rich husband, third death, a young intern at a local art institute, and now a seventy-eight year old man in retirement. Each killed within exactly ten hours of the last. Not a single minute off. Why? Why them, why that much time, what is the motive, what is the point, where did the bloody goddamn murder weapon go? Did someone muck about with the evidence? Christ—was Anderson here?"

"Shut up, Sherlock, I didn't tamper with the bloody evidence. If something isn't here it's because you couldn't find it," Anderson snaps, leaning against the police car with a scowl. "And don't get all snippy with me just because you're upset you can't show off to your little groupie for the first time in two years."

John shoots Anderson a dark look but makes no comment, instead crossing his arms over his chest in a clear display of self-restraint.

Sherlock decides to follow John's lead and forces down the swell of anger. "Stop talking, Anderson, you're being useless."

Anderson snorts unattractively and gives him a look of disbelief. "Oh, I'm the useless one? How about your partner, hm? All he does is spew constant praise and follow at your heels like an adoring dog. Now _that's_ useless."

At that, something fierce and barbed twists in his chest and without intending to, he clenches his hands into fists. "Do not speak of my partner that way, Anderson," he warns lowly, his voice a dangerous timbre. "I'd like to return my attention to the investigation now but I cannot do that if you continue with your incessant drivel, so kindly _shut up_."

"Oh? And if I don't?" Anderson leers. "Gonna sic your attack dog on me?

"Sherlock," John starts, reaching for his arm. "He's not worth it, let's just—"

"No, John," Sherlock deflects, sliding out of his grip.

Sherlock stalks over to the car and leans in so close that Anderson nearly goes cross-eyed trying to keep eye contact. When he speaks, his voice is low and unwavering. "Listen to me you worthless, blithering worm, if you say another bloody word that deters my focus from this case I will make it my personal life ambition to make each and every one of your pointless, wasted days as terrible and intolerable as possible. And before you snipe about me already doing that, keep in mind that as long as I have known you I've only ever deigned to comment on your blundering idiocy perhaps twenty percent of the time." He smiles darkly. "Would you like to experience 100%? Because I'd be more than happy to oblige."

Anderson just blinks owlishly in response.

"Didn't think so. I should also mention that if you ever attempt to degrade or pass judgment on my partner in any way ever again I will personally see to it that the government takes a profound interest in you from here on, which may or may not result in the discovery of compromising material on your computer and smart phone. And by 'compromising material' I of course mean 'grounds for expulsion from this country', though I'm sure even your simple brain pieced that much together. Do keep in mind that I have a brother in high places who can certainly make all this possible." He narrows his eyes and steps back. "_Tread lightly_."

In the following moments, tension and distinct unease settle over the crime scene. John presses his mouth into a thin line, the lackeys make a point of checking their phones, and even Sally doesn't dare make a snide comment.

"Sherlock, here's the autopsy report, Molly just faxed it over," Lestrade calls a minute later, walking over with a thin stack of paper. Most of the tension in the air wanes and disappears thanks to the interruption, but Anderson still continues shooting sour looks at everyone, much to the detective's annoyance.

"Brilliant, Lestrade," he praises, swiping the file from the DI's hands. "Now let me just—"

Sherlock freezes midsentence as his eyes land on a particular line of the report. He glances up from the document with rising dread and slowly asks, "Lestrade, I thought you said this man died of poisoned medicine. This report clearly states that the cause of death was _injected_ poisons, meaning he couldn't possibly have been killed via ingestion of tampered pills. It was manually administered by the killer."

Lestrade sighs tiredly and nods. "Yeah, well the thing is, they _did _find poisoned medicine on the premises, he just hadn't taken it yet. The killer got to him themselves before he had the chance I guess. Whoever we're dealing with is thorough as hell, I'll tell you that much."

"No, no but this changes everything!" Sherlock hisses. "If he was killed by an injected poison then that completely rules out the possibility that the killer is his personal nurse after his hidden fortune—Christ, it means there's no hidden fortune _period._ That eliminates yet another connection then. There also wasn't a single sign of forced entry found at this crime scene whereas in every other case there was at least some evidence of an attempted burglary or some form of struggle, but it didn't make sense in those contexts because those people weren't even killed in their own homes! Why does the one scene with an intruder show no signs of break in while every other one does? Why would the killer bother using such a potent poison in the man's medicine if they intended to take care of him themselves and just—wait."

He freezes like a statue and shuts his eyes, his pupils flickering madly beneath his lids. After two beats, his eyes snap open again and he reanimates.

"Oh, I've got it! We've overlooked the significance of time, here, Lestrade! Oh, it makes sense, the pieces are falling together! Don't you see, the killer had to use the needle to kill the old man because he wasn't taking his medicines as he was supposed to! Perhaps he forgot or just fancied skipping a day, but he didn't take them. That means the killer was watching him, that means it was _vitally important_ that Sydney take his medicine exactly when the killer anticipated he would, and do you know why it was so bloody important? Because for some reason the next person has to die within ten hours of the last. We commented on the killer's unfailing ability to strike within such a precise time limit, but we never bothered to wonder WHY. Why ten hours? Why not eleven? Surely if this was just a matter of killing off people one by one then it wouldn't particularly matter when they died, as long as it got done. No, this murderer is trying to convey something. Ten hours. TEN HOURS. Ten, what is the significance of ten? This is a message to someone. Or a group of people. An entire organization? This is a warning or a symbol or a clue or—it's something. It means something. _What is ten?"_

"W-well what does it mean?" Lestrade fumbles, attempting to keep up.

Sherlock grabs fistfuls of curls and tugs fretfully, resuming his pacing. "I don't know, Lestrade. _I don't bloody know."_

* * *

><p>4.<p>

After six more fruitless hours of bumbling about the crime scene, screaming at the Yard for its collective incompetence, and digging through useless file after useless file, John finally tugs him away and shoves the two of them into a cab, insisting that Sherlock has 'done enough for today'.

The cab ends up dropping them off a few blocks from the Chinese place John's been wanting to try and Sherlock suspects it's because John thinks a nighttime walk will do Sherlock good, as John is well aware of the mania that follows an unsolved case. What John doesn't understand is that this isn't just an unsolved case, it's a _failure_. It is yet another item on the running list of reasons why John should stay as far away as possible from Sherlock.

It's bad enough that his role in John's life has shrunk to whatever small corner Mary deigns to allow him, but now he has just rendered himself _useless_ by failing to provide John with the flush of success and excitement that he is supposed to supply. That's why John likes him: the cases, the danger, the lighthearted adventure. And now that he's come up short on those demands, what good is he?

As they walk along the pavement, Sherlock shoves his hands deep in his coat pockets and stares sullenly at the moon, his jaw clenched in frustration. "I'm sorry I couldn't solve it," he murmurs, bitterness and self-hatred coloring his tone.

John stops walking and turns to him with a frown. "Why are you sorry?"

The streets are quieter than usual, the late hour painting London in dark blues and greys, streetlamps dotting the subdued, emptying streets with warm, glowing lights. Sherlock exhales wearily and his breath looks like ghosts in the cool air.

John grips his shoulders and holds him at arm's length. "Sherlock, look at me."

"John…" he complains, looking away.

"Humor me, alright? Just stop glaring at the sodding sky for two seconds and look at me."

Sherlock releases a put-upon sigh and meets John eyes, unsurprised to find himself immediately drawn into the navy-blue pools. At once, he becomes too aware of John's warm palms on his shoulders and the meager distant between their bodies. "Yes, John?"

"First of all, the investigation is far from finished, so there's no need to throw in the towel and call it quits just yet. And second of all, being that this is one of the most complex cases we've ever encountered, the fact that you couldn't manage to solve it within a few hours is hardly your fault. It'd take a bloody machine to process information that quickly, not to mention we don't much evidence at our disposal. We have all day tomorrow to work on the case and if we still can't figure something out, then we'll talk to your brother—and don't give me that look, Sherlock, it's a last resort, alright? The world isn't ending just because you couldn't whip up an answer to this mystery from thin air. It's all okay, it's all fine."

In the face of John's kindness, Sherlock feels even more miserable. "But don't you see, John?" he pleads, anxiously tugging at his hair, "I have to make these cases perfect for you. There has to be just enough risk, adrenalin, and success for the experience to be thoroughly enjoyable and tonight I have not provided all of those things. Admittedly there was a decent amount of risk involved and the brief investigation we engaged in, however misguided, was considerably exciting, but I failed to solve it. I _failed."_

"Christ, Sherlock, why does it matter so much that I enjoy the—"

"_Because,"_ Sherlock cuts in, "if you don't enjoy the cases then you won't have a reason to…to visit me," he finishes unsurely. Sherlock casts his gaze to the floor and attempts to regain composure in the time it takes to stare at this shoes. "I don't mean to say I disapprove of my new role in your life, of course. I completely understand that my job is to provide a certain measure of danger and excitement—"

"_What?"_ John interrupts, sounding genuinely baffled. "Your _job_? You think if the cases aren't interesting enough I'll just stop coming round? That I'll stop seeing you?"

"Mary already doesn't care for us spending time together, is it so unreasonable to believe you'd no longer care for it either? It's simple, really: once an object ceases to function, it is no longer valuable and should be discarded. Same goes for me and cases, John. I get it."

"Sherlock," he says earnestly, "you are not an _object _for Christ's sake. You are not a convenient outlet for my danger fix, you are not an instrument for my amusement, and you are NOT a tool that should be 'discarded'. You are my best friend who just happens to have the same mad addiction to peril that I do, and _together _we go out and solve crimes. Sometimes they're easy and sometimes they don't work out, but the success of a case has never been a deciding factor in our relationship. It's true that Mary doesn't particularly like that I run around with you on cases, and I know if she had her way, you and I would spend our time watching football in pubs instead of going after murderers. But that doesn't mean _I _feel that way. It doesn't mean that I'm just going to stop spending time with you. I would never do that, alright? So please, get it out of your head that you need to cater to my every whim to keep me in your life—I'm already here and I have no intention of ever leaving."

John offers him an honest smile and squeezes his forearm. "Okay?"

Sherlock blinks rapidly, overwhelmed by the influx of information. _No intention of leaving?_

"Okay," he breathes.

"Good. Now what do you say we get some dim sum?"

. . .

In the golden low light of the restaurant, John crooks a teasing brow and leans in across the small table. "You told me once that you can predict fortune cookies. Care to make good on that claim?"

"But of course," Sherlock replies indulgently, pushing a cookie in his direction, "here you are."

John cracks open the cookie and reads the slip of paper with a perfect poker face. Sherlock smirks and leans back in his chair, arms crossed confidently over his chest.

"Well?" John prompts, his eyes bright and playful. "Go on, then. Impress me."

"You will soon find yourself surprised by a trusted companion—do not take things at face value."

John's eyebrows rise on his forehead and he looks incredulously from the fortune to Sherlock. "No buggering way…"

"Really?" he asks, nakedly surprised. "I got it?"

John snorts and tosses the paper at him. "No, you tit, it says some rubbish about financial gain."

The comment surprises a laugh out of him and when John joins in, he finds himself helpless to stop the smile spreading on his face. "Perhaps you'll come into some money, then."

"Nah," John dismisses with a lazy smile. "I'm rich enough as is."

"I see. Did a distant relative die and leave you their estate recently?" Sherlock inquires drily.

John chuckles and shakes his head. "No, I didn't mean I'm financially rich. I just meant, well, my life is pretty damn good right now." He looks at Sherlock from across the table with warmth in his eyes. "I've missed this, you know. Going on cases, running after you without having the slightest idea where we're headed. I'm glad we're doing this."

A heady glow blossoms inside Sherlock's chest like a brilliant flame, engulfing his entire being in a warm flush. For just a moment it feels as if the entire world is contained within these four walls and the only two people left are him and John, trapped eternally in this perfect moment. Sherlock quirks a small, genuine smile and soaks in John's visage, colored in golds and shadowy browns from the flickering candle, and stows the image away in his mind palace.

"Me too."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thanks so much for reading guys! HUGE shout out to everyone who has commented on each update and given me feedback, and an even BIGGER shout out to those of you who have cited specific lines/moments you enjoyed in your review. Those are honestly the most gratifying because not only do I get a sense of what you guys like/would like to see more of, but most of the time you guys end up liking the stuff I least expect! Anyway, you guys are all lovely and thanks bunches for taking the time to read and review. **

**See you next Sunday, darlings! xoxo**


	6. Mystery

**A/N: Hey guys! Here's an extra long chapter to make up for my late update! xoxo**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Mystery:<strong>__ (noun) __something that is difficult or impossible to understand or explain:_

_. . . _

1.

_The next morning: _

"So that's it, then? They've just _stopped_?" John asks in disbelief, leaning against the wall of Lestrade's office with his and Sherlock's respective coffees in hand. "Forty-eight hours of back to back deaths and now _nothing?"_

"Radio silence," The DI confirms, sipping at his own drink with a troubled expression. "After Carmichael was offed last night, ten hours came and went without another death. I haven't the slightest idea why they would've abated so soon—I mean, if you're apt enough to kill four people in two days without leaving a trace of evidence, why stop there? Why not take out a whole bloody town while you're at it?"

"Condoning murder, Lestrade?" Sherlock questions drily, finally breaking his standing four hour silence.

"Ah, it speaks!" Greg exclaims, slapping his palm on the table. "And no, Sherlock, I'm just saying I don't see their goal here. Care to enlighten us? You've certainly have ample time to think."

Sherlock unfolds himself from the small chair before Lestrade's desk and begins pacing the office, his hands clasped behind his back. "It's simple. The reason the murderer has stopped killing is because their message has been conveyed. Four people killed within ten hours of each other over the span of two days—each one of those numbers is highly significant. How, I am not yet certain. However, I do know that the first step to unraveling this case is looking at the first victim: January Phillips." He stops pacing and looks to Lestrade. "May I see her file?"

"Yeah, gimme a mo', I think Donovan was the last to have it." Lestrade says, rising from his desk. "John, make sure he keeps his hands out of my things, yeah?"

"On it," John salutes.

However, the moment the door closes behind Lestrade, John chimes, "Coast's clear" and Sherlock sprints to the cabinet behind his desk and begins rifling through files. John hops out of his chair and joins him on the other side of the desk, whistling at the large stack of paper Sherlock unearths.

"What are you looking for?" John asks eventually, raising his eyebrows at the array of photos and documents spilling from Sherlock's arms. "Greg's going to get January's file right now, what else do you need?"

Sherlock ignores him and sets the papers aside, digging through the drawers until his fingers graze the bottom of the cabinet. "Damn," he mumbles under his breath. Without a single word of explanation, he pulls the chair next to the bookshelf and runs his hands over the tops of the shelves, stirring up clouds of dust in his wake.

"Sherlock, really, what—"

"John_, hush,"_ Sherlock hisses, patting his hands along the wooden backing of the shelf. His fingertips snag on a few unruly splinters, but his focus is so keen that the pain hardly registers.

"Here we are," he murmurs at last, holding the small black microphone between his index finger and thumb. The instrument is half the size of his fingernail. With great care, he sets it on the floor directly under his shoe and crushes the device to smithereens.

"Bug," he explains when John expectantly raises his brows.

"Is it your brother's?"

Sherlock squats down to sweep the residual pieces into his cupped palm. "No, this isn't his brand. This belongs to a private operation."

"How'd you know we were being bugged?"

"A feeling," he shrugs, depositing the broken chips of metal into his coat pocket, "a hunch, really."

John crosses his arms. "And why did you wait until Lestrade left? I highly doubt he would've minded if you checked his office for bugs"

"Like I said, John, it was a hunch. Wouldn't have done to be incorrect, would it?"

John raises his eyebrows and releases a surprised huff of laughter. "Ah, didn't want to be wrong?"

"Of course not," he replies, affronted. "Anyway, the discovery of that microphone just confirmed my suspicions. Whoever committed these crimes is keeping tabs on us, which means they must still be lingering in London. Either that or their organization spans so widely that they have their operatives stationed here while the murderer themselves stays safely aware from the scene of the crime." He purses his lips and drums his fingers musingly against the table. "I've yet to decide which is the case."

"Well," John starts, "first thing, we need to look through January's file. Then, why don't you talk to your brother and see what he knows? In the meantime I'll head to the Yard and sort out the chaos that hasn't no doubt broken loose in your absence."

At the mention of his brother's name, Sherlock's features reflexively assemble into a scowl, but upon second thought he realizes it isn't a bad idea. Besides, Mycroft has proven to be unexpectedly helpful as of late. "Brilliant plan, John," he beams, digging into his pocket for his mobile, "I'll let him know I'm stopping by."

"Er, on second thought, he might be busy. What if he has company over? Or an important meeting?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Mycroft's personal contact book consists of myself, my mother, and Anthea, and he never holds a business meeting on a Sunday. He considers it bad luck for some absurd reason. I'll hardly be interrupting anything of importance."

_I will be at your office in approx. 30 min. for information on the '10 hour deaths' case. January Phillips, Jessica Hepburn, Nathaniel Hastings, and Sydney Carmichael. SH_

_Ah, am I your personal well of information now? Who's to say I am not currently busy? MH_

_Me. John already voiced similar concerns and I assured him that your endlessly eventful social life with not be an obstacle. Nor will your business life, as it is Sunday. SH_

_I'm aware. MH_

_Undoubtedly. See you in 30. SH_

* * *

><p>2.<p>

"This doesn't make _sense,"_ Sherlock snaps, throwing the papers onto Mycroft's desk with a loud smack, only to pick them up a minute later and continue irately scanning them.

"According to January's file, she was married to Mathew Phillips. He died at forty five of a heart attack. Apparently, he was a wealthy businessman who worked in finances, he'd accumulated a respectable personal worth by the young age of twenty five, and his marriage to January was made official in a courthouse just outside of Sussex a decade ago. Yet _for some reason _his file is only," Sherlock flips through the thin stack, "four pages long. Most grown adults who've done nothing but sit on their arses for forty years have at least ten pages of information. So _why_ is there so little information on Mr. Phillips here?"

"These are forged," Mycroft replies succinctly, placing the paper back on his desk. "And not just anyone has the ability to forge papers this high up. Clearly, this is the work of a powerful operation."

Sherlock furrows his brow and continues pacing the room, unconcerned that his shoes are wearing tracks in his brother's fine, imported carpet. Unfortunately, Mycroft does not share his nonchalance.

"Sherlock, do keep in mind that rug is _Parisian._ It costs more than your entire flat so kindly tread elsewhere."

"Mycroft, I am _thinking_," Sherlock snaps. His patience is already thin and the burgeoning headache that is in the process of forming isn't helping the situation.

"Ah, yes, and what am I doing, Sherlock? Juggling?" Mycroft returns sardonically. "If you would just take a seat, I would be happy to show you the remainder of Mrs. Phillips' file so that we may proceed."

Sherlock scowls and deigns to take a seat, his fingers drumming listlessly against the fine cherry-wood arm of the chair. "I already saw January Phillips' file, Mycroft. I read it cover to cover at the Yard, there's no need to rehash things."

"Oh, _Really,"_ Mycroft drawls, settling unhurriedly into his chair with a knowing expression. "So then I suppose you are aware of the eleven years of traceable documents that are absent from Mrs. Phillips' file?"

His petulant expression melts away in an instant and Sherlock sits up in his chair, his curiosity undeniably piqued. "Go on."

"Well, you see, for the latter portion of her file, Mrs. Phillips' life is fairly unimpressive. She quit her job as a children's nurse a month after she met her wealthy husband and lived a life of ease and relative luxury for the next ten years. However, the question is, what occurred in the _beginning _of her life? Her birth certificate is legitimate and her first few years of adolescence are soundly documented, but then at age eighteen she completely drops off the map. The missing information has gone unnoticed before now because she was clever enough to put 'placeholder' information in the empty spaces, which allowed her to evade the careless eyes of data management for several years.

"I am not yet certain what or who exactly we are dealing with, but judging by the bug you told me about, I think it is in our best interest to keep this to ourselves until we completely understand the situation," Mycroft cautions. "There is no reason to present partial information to the Yard as it is unlikely they will be able to do much with it. Besides, there is a deeper issue at hand—one that surpasses four mere murders. If I thought you would respect my wishes, I would insist that you leave this case alone entirely and allow me to deal with it." His brother sighs and looks up at him. "However, I am far from delusional and thus have no misconceptions about where you stand with your cases. I understand that you intend to be part of this from start to finish, and I, however reluctantly, accept that."

"That is quite decent of you, brother," Sherlock admits, mildly impressed. "And you are correct, I have no intention of leaving this case in anyone's hands but my own."

"So we are in agreement, then? To keep this under wraps for the time being, I mean," Mycroft confirms.

"Yes, January's information will stay within the confines of this office. As for the rest of the victims, there's hardly anything amiss about their information so I shall not hesitate to share my findings with Lestrade and his lackeys."

"Fair enough," Mycroft allows. A beat passes before he lowers his head and begins signing one of the many papers stacked on his desk. Sherlock rises from his chair, aware of the unspoken dismissal.

"Oh, and Sherlock?" Mycroft calls from his desk a moment later, almost as an afterthought.

Sherlock turns away from the door and faces his brother, startled to find that Mycroft's expression holds no hint of condescension or malice. Instead, his face looks completely bare of its usual deceit and sincerity radiates from him in waves. "Sherlock, I'm glad you repaired things with John. You seem much happier now and that…that makes me," he pauses and clears his throat, "pleased."

Caught off guard, Sherlock nods stiffly, surprised at the small shudder of warmth his brother's words provoke. "Thank you, Mycroft," he concedes, inclining his head in gratitude. "If I require anything else, I will not hesitate to text you."

Mycroft nods and pointedly goes back to writing, but Sherlock doesn't miss the faint smile that crinkles around his eyes.

* * *

><p>3.<p>

The Yard is, as usual, filled with bumbling idiots and chaos. In the private sanctuary of his mind, Sherlock asks himself why this fact still surprises him.

First of all, the case files are splayed haphazardly across three separate tables, his carefully labeled evidence samples are emptied from their organized bins, and the sound of useless chatter clouds the air like smog. Secondly, there is not a single person who is actually doing something useful; most of the detectives are too busy shouting at each other or scrambling through the mess in search of 'proof' to bother occupying themselves with matters of importance.

Sherlock thanks his lucky stars that John is here because the moment Sherlock sets foot into the building, John meets his gaze from across the room, nods once in understanding, and proceeds to use his patented Captain John Watson voice to bellow, "_Quiet, you lot!"_

As expected, the entire room stills and every eyes turns to John. "Sherlock is here and I'm sure he has a few things to share," John explains calmly, clasping his hands in front of him and nodding to Sherlock.

As Sherlock walks through the now-silent crowd, making his way to the spread of photographs and evidence, he privately relishes the fact that John silenced the entire room for _him_. He used his powerful, commanding soldier voice to simultaneously shut the mouths of every idiot within the building all for _Sherlock_.

He forces himself to bite down a smile.

Once he's reached the front of the room, he turns on his heel and faces the waiting crowd of inspectors and detectives. "First we must look at the victims themselves. After extensively looking into each case and discussing several important details with my brother, I have noted a common factor amongst each of the deaths that undeniably ties the murderer to all four cases," Sherlock begins, his fingers skimming idly over the assortment of evidence containers. "First, we shall begin with the death of January Phillips: the death that spurred all the rest. January was a forty two year old woman married to the currently deceased Mathew Phillips, and she was killed at exactly two in the morning. Cause of death? Her throat was slit with a poison tipped knife.

"Then we have Jessica Hepburn, the twenty five year old intern at the Academy of High Arts, who was shot and killed while sitting in her car in the parking lot of her workplace. The shooter was at a sniper-level distance, which means they must be equipped with long-range shooting skills. Poison was detected in her blood and around the entry wound, but the toxin itself wasn't identified in the official autopsy report due to either incompetence or conspiracy. I am unconcerned with the omission because it takes only a bit of thinking to discern what kind of poison was in the bullet." Sherlock plucks the photograph of the woman's autopsy off the table and examines it with narrowed eyes. For some indiscernible reason, the image wobbles briefly and his headache from earlier returns with vengeance. Refusing to be deterred by his irritating transport, Sherlock ignores the sensations and barrels on.

"First, it depends on the bullet and the chemist who created the poison. Then we must factor in air friction, though that shouldn't be a problem if the bullet tip was made by the type of material that is made malleable by the heat of the gun and disburses the toxin upon contact. One thing that comes to mind is the method used by the KGB and other Warsaw Bloc secret police for the assassination of Georgi Markov. They disguised a gun to look like an umbrella and stocked it with small bullets filled with ricin. And there we have it—ricin. Pricey, rare, and extremely fatal even in minute doses.

"Next, we have Mr. Nathaniel Hastings, the homosexual businessman who met his untimely demise at 10pm as he was topping off his day with a hard earned drink. Unfortunately, his martini had 200mg of cyanide mixed in and he was dead within 15 minutes of drinking it.

"And finally, we have our latest victim, Mr. Sydney Carmichael, a retired businessman living a simple life alone in his 1.7 million dollar home. He was injected with a fatal dose of Dimethylmercury in the carotid artery at 8am. As there were no signs of forced entry or struggle, this means the killer must have been either extremely clever or so familiar and seemingly unthreatening that it didn't occur to the man to have doubts. He/she would have had to get extremely close to the victim to have injected poison into him."

Sherlock stops speaking and turns to the crowd of silent detectives, waiting for a chorus of understanding to greet him. Instead, he receives blank stares.

"Aren't you all seeing the pattern here, too?" he demands, frustrated. "First case, poison tipped knife, then cyanide in the coffee, then the injected Dimethylmercury, and now this, a bullet casing filled with ricin." Sherlock spins back around and stares at the spread of evidence with a calculating expression. "Whoever we are dealing with is an expert in poisons. In fact, it's their calling card," he muses, holding the photographs of the crime scenes up to the light to better view them. "Four different mediums and not a single slip up. I'd go as far as calling them a professional. Let's see, let's see, what else do we know—ah, yes, this means the killer would have had to seem trustworthy, correct? Someone you might not expect to stab you in the neck. That narrows it down to either a close friend of Mr. Carmichael's or a very unintimidating person in general. Someone plain? Or perhaps attractive—roses with their thorns and all that rot, you know. Perhaps someone young?" He closes his eyes and mentally sifts through characteristics that one might deem nonthreatening. "Think innocence, think safety, think comforting. The killer knew these people. The victims maybe even _trusted _the killer. There's a history here, an undeniable—"

Sherlock stops suddenly as a jolt of nausea shoots through his body and the images before him begin to swim. He closes his eyes and holds one hand against the table to steady himself, the other clutched uselessly at his temple.

"Sherlock?" John asks, leaning towards him in concern.

"I—I'm fine," he forces out, willing away the dizziness rattling in his skull. His blood is pumping far too loudly in his veins and his heart is a wild thing inside his chest.

"Can we get a minute alone?" John requests, having correctly discerned that Sherlock is indeed _not _fine. When no one moves, John scowls at the crowd of staring detectives and squares his shoulders. "Lestrade? Think you and your lot can stop gawking at him for a minute and give us some privacy?"

"Er, yeah—apologies," the DI hastily replies. With authority, Lestrade turns to the rest of the Yard and gruffly begins ushering them out of the room. "Come on now, give the man some peace. Out you go—yes, and that means you too Anderson."

Once it's just him and John, Sherlock drops his pretenses and gives into the urge to crumple to the floor in a heap. The earth undulates beneath his feet. "I think I've been poisoned," he mutters faintly, his head lolling against his shoulder. John squats down to join him and gently presses two fingers to Sherlock's arced neck, narrowing his eyes in concentration as he takes the detective's pulse. With steady hands, he takes hold of Sherlock's chin, turns his head towards him, and carefully lifts his eyelid with his thumb, scanning the area for signs of narcotic poisoning. After a few more minutes of inspection, John sits down beside him looking thoroughly unconcerned, and states, "You definitely haven't been poisoned, Sherlock."

"Then why do I feel as if I'm on the verge of collapsing?" he grouses, rubbing weakly at his temples.

"Because, you git, you haven't slept in ages. You're suffering from _sleep deprivation_."

Sherlock blearily opens an eye and frowns at him. "And you're sure it's not poison?"

"Well let's see, are your symptoms headache, nausea, lack of focus, and weakness of muscles?"

"Yes."

"Right, yeah, that's sleep deprivation. When is the last time you got at least five hours?"

"What month is it?"

"Sherlock," John warns, "I'm not joking."

Sherlock releases a sigh of defeat and looks at John from the corner of his eye. "I believe the last time I slept for a complete five hours was…a week and a half ago? Somewhere around ten days. Or was it eleven? I don't quite know."

To his surprise, John remains uncharacteristically silent. Instead of blowing up or scolding him, John says nothing at all for the longest time. Sherlock closes his eyes again, figuring it's the safest option in any case.

"John?" he mumbles eventually, still not opening his eyes.

Nothing.

"John," he says again, this time opening his eyes. Sherlock scans John's face, attempting to suss him out, but there isn't much information to glean because John keeps his expression unbearably neutral.

After a long moment, John relents. "Sherlock, why haven't you been sleeping?" While he doesn't sound angry or on the brink of lecturing, his voice does carry a note of disappointment, which is somehow worse.

Sherlock hollowly recalls countless nights of staring at the ceiling with the weight of the world pressing down on his chest like an anchor, each elongated minute spent trying to figure out which way to turn next in the impossible maze he's come to call his life. At one point, violin was a soothing remedy to his insomnia, but now that he is alone the music feels more haunting than comforting. What's the point of a symphony without an audience, after all?

He bites the inside of his cheek and casts his gaze to the floor. "You are not there to remind me and it's never been a priority of mine, so it's quite easy for the sleepless nights to slip by without notice."

"So, what, now that I don't live there you're just going to kill yourself with neglect?"

He presses his lips into a flat line. "That wasn't my intention, no."

"Right. Well, that settles it," John declares at once, startling Sherlock with the abrupt change in tone. "We're going back to the flat. Right now." He stands up and holds out a hand for Sherlock to grab. "Come on, I'll help you up."

Panic flares in his chest and he immediately stiffens in protest, plastering himself against the wall and as far away from John's offered hand as possible. They are _this_ close to arriving at some sort of conclusion with this case, and to leave now would mean leaving innumerable loose threads hanging at the mercy of blithering fools like _Anderson, _for Christ's sake!

"But, John, the case—"

"The case can bloody well wait when your health is on the line," John retorts.

"John, I promise if we stay for at least three more hours, I'll go to bed the moment we get home and sleep in extra late tomorrow morning. In fact, I'll even throw in a few naps too! Yes, I have three or four unoccupied slots in my schedule this week and if it'd truly appease you, I'd be more than happy to fill them with rest."

"Sherlock, get up."

Still pressed against the wall, Sherlock continues bargaining, "John, be reasonable about this. I'm sure this headache will abate and surely the dizziness is temporary. If we could just stay for a bit longer, I might be able to _save lives_, and aren't you always going on about how important that is? Wouldn't you prefer that-"

"This really isn't up for debate," John cuts off, his expression unyielding and firm. "If you don't stand up and leave this building like an adult, then I will be forced to pick you up and bloody _carry_ you out of here. Don't think I won't, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock allows his entire body to go limp with defeat. He knows when he's lost and John's tone clearly leaves no room for persuasion.

"Fine," he concedes. "But you may have to make good on your word because I can't quite stand at the moment."

…

Sherlock imagines that he and John look quite ridiculous walking out of Scotland Yard like a married couple, John carrying Sherlock with an ease that is equal parts impressive and mortifying. Sherlock resolutely looks ahead, determined to maintain his pride, but unfortunately, it's quite difficult to look intimidating when he has his arms linked around John's neck like a blushing bride.

"Jesus, you need to eat," John comments as he adjusts his hand on the underside of Sherlock's thigh, jostling the detective in the process, "You barely weigh anything!"

"John," Sherlock mutters through gritted teeth, abundantly aware of the stares the two of them are receiving. "If you could keep your comments to yourself, that would prevent this situation from becoming any more embarrassing than it already is, thank you."

"Yes, well, I did give you the option of leaving on your own two feet, remember," John replies reasonably. "You're the one who opted for this."

"_Opted_ is a very questionable term," Sherlock snaps.

Untroubled, John continues carrying him bridal-style through the crowd of Yarders who, due to a mixture of shock and perhaps confusion, part like the red sea. Greg catches sight of the two of them and opens his mouth in question but, at John's expression, immediately cuts himself off and presses his lips shut. "I'll, er, see you boys tomorrow then, yeah?" he says instead.

"Bright and early, Greg," John chimes, ignoring the faint growl from Sherlock.

Their cab is in view, they've endured only a few raised brows, and things are starting to look up, when a certain greasy-haired idiot swims into view. Sherlock's heart plummets to the pit of his chest and he nearly leaps out of John's arms right then and there, heedless of his enfeebled leg muscles. "Christ, here comes Anderson. I am _not _dealing with him right now," Sherlock bites, turning his face resolutely into John's jumper-clad shoulder. He can practically taste the git's stupid comments and in his current weakened state, he's really in no mood to shoot down the moron's incessant drivel.

"If he says anything, I'll handle it, alright? Besides, after the way you shot him down yesterday, I highly doubt he'll be coming back for more," John assures.

Sherlock scoffs into the fluffy material of John's sweater. "Idiots are funny that way, John. A lesson never quite sticks and—Christ, I can smell his cheap cologne from here. Is he getting closer? I refuse to look."

"Well, yes, he's walking over and—hello, Anderson. May I help you?"

Even though he's turned away, he can perfectly picture the leer on Anderson's face. "Yes, actually, I was just wondering when you decided to leave your perfectly sane fiancé for this lunatic. By the looks of it, you two are clearly headed off on your honeymoon right about now," Anderson goads, snickering to himself. "Funny, though, I didn't picture _him_ being the woman in this setup."

Sherlock is seconds from whipping his head around and giving the git a verbal lashing that'll make his head spin, when John calmly replies, "Whether we're headed to our honeymoon or our flat, it's none of your business, Anderson, so if you could kindly step aside and allow us to get into our cab, that'd be lovely."

Because Anderson is an idiot and apparently deaf to the Implicit Threat lining John's seemingly polite tone, he crosses his arms over his chest and remains rooted in his spot. "_Really though_, how is your fiancé okay with you mucking about with this psychotic—"

"_Maybe,"_ John cuts in, his polite tone taking a harder edge, "you didn't understand me the first time. Move. Out. Of. Our. Way. Unless of course you'd like to take a quick trip to hospital? Because rest assured, I can provide that for you, Phillip."

The path to their cab is quite accessible after that.

* * *

><p>4.<p>

By the time they've made it into 221B, it's eight pm and the skull-pounding headache plaguing Sherlock has yet to abate. If anything, it's gotten worse, and his vision is a bit more blurred than usual as well.

At John's insistence, he allows himself to be guided into his room. Once they're in the threshold, Sherlock grips the doorway with one hand and stares tiredly at the perfectly creased, heatless sheets tucked over his bed. Dread spills through him like a flood.

Even though he can feel John staring at his profile, he doesn't bother trying to mask his distress.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"I have trouble falling asleep," Sherlock confesses after a pregnant pause, looking at the stiff white sheets with frustration. "I can never seem to make my body relax. There's always so much to think about and get done, it's hard to just shut everything down."

It's always been like this. Sleep has never been something Sherlock can simply ease into or bask in—it has always felt forced, tiresome, useless, and unhelpful. To the detective, sleep means tossing and turning for endless hours in a dark room with nothing to do but_ think_. And because Sherlock Holmes is not an ordinary man, he doesn't think linearly, drifting smoothly from one half-formed thought to the next, he thinks in double helixes and figure eights: his thoughts circle round and round like a snake eating its tail and for every notion to skim his brain, ten more are produced, and from each of those, twenty more branch off into their own experiments, questions, hypotheses, and theories. His mind is a colorful, loud, uncontainable device that runs at all hours of the day. It's a beautiful place, of course, and it teems with knowledge and white-hot brilliance, but he can never switch it off. Only in moments of utter peace and comfort is he able to drown out the noise, and he's only ever achieved such a mental state by two means: cocaine and John Watson.

With both aids absent from his life, sleep has become a distantly important notion with little meaning and even less prevalence. Logically, he knows he's better off without it, but apparently his exhausted transport disagrees.

After a long moment of deliberation, John sighs and steps into the room. "I'll help you, alright?"

Sherlock frowns. "Help me?"

"With, er, relaxing," John clarifies, scratching the back of his head uncomfortably. There's a few beats in which nothing is said and Sherlock quickly realizes that if he allows the silence to stretch on any longer, John will lose the nerve to do whatever it is he plans to do. Without wanting to seem too eager or reluctant, Sherlock seats himself on the edge of his bed and steadily meets John eyes, "How do you intend to help me? I suppose I'm amenable if it means getting rid of this headache."

"Have you ever, er, had your hair stroked?"

Sherlock wrinkles his nose in disdain. "I'm a man, John, not a dog. Why would I enjoy being petted?"

"So you've never?" John raises his eyebrows and Sherlock momentarily feels as if he's taken a misstep by admitting to it. He's on the brink of dismissing the whole situation and locking himself in his room, when John smiles easily and sits down next to him. "It's actually fairly relaxing. Come here, I'll show you." John situates himself against the headboard and drops a pillow unceremoniously into his lap, patting it invitingly. "Put your head here."

Even though he is abundantly aware that assuming any sort of intimate position with John is bound to have bad results, Sherlock lays down and rests his head on John's thigh without a second thought. The smell of laundry detergent and warm skin roll off John in waves and it takes every ounce of his willpower to refrain from burying his nose in John's jumper-clad abdomen and inhaling deeply.

"Here, see?" John says quietly, running his palm across Sherlock's cool forehead and into his tangle of curls. "Relaxing." Soothingly, John repeats the motion, his warm, calloused hands skimming deliciously over Sherlock's skin.

"Mm. That's not…terrible," he murmurs drowsily after a few moments.

John laughs softly. "Oh shut up, you love it. You're practically purring." Sherlock wonders if it's his imagination that is making John's tone sound so fond.

"Good?" John asks.

The feeling is so lovely and intoxicating that he can't find it in him to summon a response, so instead of speaking, he sighs and tips his head back in John's palms, unintentionally revealing the pale column of his neck. John chuckles warmly at Sherlock's response and scratches his nails lightly against Sherlock's scalp, sending white-hot sparks down the detective's spine and turning all remaining tension to liquid.

"Mmm," Sherlock hums, losing himself in the sensation.

He slips into unconsciousness unhurriedly, at loathe to lose a single moment of John gently brushing curls away from his forehead. If he keeps his eyes closed and doesn't think of anything outside this moment, it's quite easy to pretend that this is his life—that John loves _him _instead of Mary. He can pretend that John will soon lean down and press his lips against Sherlock's temple, then his cheekbones, trailing down, down, down, until he reaches the smiling corner of his lips. He can pretend that he has the option of sitting up and tilting their mouths together, kissing deep and warm and wet, sliding his large palms across the uncharted planes of John's skin and claiming each territory as his own. He can pretend that John will eventually lie down beside him and murmur _I love you_ into his ear, along his neck, and against his heart, repeating the phrase over and over until the letters are branded onto Sherlock's skin like tattoos.

As he drifts off, he convinces himself the pretending is enough.

It has to be.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Darlings, I can't thank you enough for taking the time to leave comments and feedback. Every time I see a new review it honestly makes my day :) Tell me your favorite lines/moments! If there's something you hope to see or don't like, let me know! Thanks so much for reading, lovelies!**

**See you next Sunday! xoxo **


	7. Reality

**A/N: Important stuff in the end notes, guys, make sure to check it out!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Reality:<strong>_ _(noun) __the world or the state of things as they actually exist, as opposed to an idealistic or notional idea of them_

_. . ._

1.

When Sherlock wakes up the next morning, the first sensation he registers is the soft wool of John's jumper against his cheek. Then, as he gradually regains awareness, he notices the delightful, cozy warmth encompassing his entire being and the soft form moving beneath him.

"Mm," he hums contentedly, wishing he could keep this moment preserved forever in amber.

John is lying supine on the couch with his head propped up on the armrest and Sherlock splayed partially on top of him, one hand loosely entangled in the detective's curls. His head is resting on John's abdomen and his long legs are curled up in a wild heap at the other end of the couch. From what he can deduce, John fell asleep shortly after Sherlock and hadn't bothered to move the two of them or change positions.

Sherlock can't say he minds terribly.

It's strange, this position, because they've never been like this before: this close, this warm, this simple and intimate. If he keeps his eyes closed and blurs his thoughts, it's easy to pretend that this is just another morning in their domestic, romantically-involved lives.

Sherlock inhales slowly and stores the sweet, warm smell of skin and laundry soap and cinnamon on the highest shelf of his mind palace, along with the rest of the vital minutia he's gathered on John over the years.

He wonders what spurred this sudden burst of physical affection. He supposes it could be because John is a fairly demonstrative person by nature and doesn't see this as anything more than a random, thoughtless expression of platonic fondness. Or it could be a mere coincidence that they ended up like this; perhaps John doesn't care much either way and permitted the two of them to remain in this position simply because it was more convenient than going through the trouble of relocating. Of course, there is also the possibility that John doesn't even realize their position. Sherlock is hesitant to even entertain the fourth possibility because it is incredibly far-fetched, but he supposes there is also a small, infinitesimal chance that John allowed this because he has a genuine desire for intimacy with Sherlock.

A small chance. Practically nonexistent, really.

"You awake?" John asks, his voice scratchy with sleep.

Sherlock tenses up, briefly worried that John will fully awaken, realize their position, and fling himself away in disgust. Hesitantly, Sherlock replies, "Yes," without looking up or moving. His heart waits in his chest.

However, instead of getting angry, John just yawns and clumsily pats Sherlock's curved back. "Morning."

A series of sensations spill through him like a flood, fear replaced by relief and relief replaced by joy. "Good morning," he replies back, immeasurably pleased at John's apparent lack of concern towards their arrangement.

"Have you been awake long?"

"No, only a few minutes. You?"

"Mm, just woke up right now," John replies, stretching out a bit and lifting Sherlock's body with his in the process. Sherlock considers sitting up, but John's movement settles quickly. And besides, he doesn't seem at all bothered by the weight of the detective on him, so Sherlock happily elects to remain right where he is.

Content and still basking in tendrils of sleepiness, Sherlock watches pale morning light spill through the sitting room window and realizes it's been ages since he's awoken late enough to miss the sunrise.

"How long was I asleep?" Sherlock murmurs into John's abdomen, absently rubbing his face against the soft material of John's sweater. (He pointedly ignores the small voice that reminds him that_ cats_ do this to their owners, not people to their friends)

Apparently unperturbed, John brushes a lazy hand through Sherlock's hair and replies, "At least eight hours. It's seven o' clock right now."

Sherlock raises his head in surprise and looks at John, his chin propped up on John's midsection. "An entire eight hours? I haven't slept that much since I was a child." Sherlock sits up and rubs a hand against his forehead, surprised to find the pain from last night gone. "My head feels incredibly clear and my muscles no longer ache," he marvels.

"Yeah, sleep'll do that for you," John says, sounding smug. Sherlock decides against commenting on it because he reckons John has earned the right to a bit of self-satisfaction. He was correct, after all.

"In the mood for breakfast?" John asks as he gets off the couch and yawns.

Surprisingly, he is. Apparently a healthy appetite is another result of a good night's rest. "Yes, actually," he admits.

John smiles and shuffles into the kitchen. "Two stacks of pancakes coming right up."

* * *

><p>2.<p>

After breakfast, Sherlock unearths the files from where John stowed them last night and resumes working on the case, but after spending an entire hour pouring uselessly over the information, he finds himself hitting dead end after dead end.

There simply isn't enough evidence to work with. Yes, he'd successfully found one common factor among the string of deaths—poison—but there are dozens more factors that he hasn't the slightest inkling of. There is connection here, a person, place, or motive that ties these seemingly unrelated victims together in irrefutable synchronization, but for the life of him he cannot fathom _what _exactly that link is.

Sherlock grits his teeth and paces the sitting room, his hands fretting about like anxious birds. John watches him with an odd expression that, were Sherlock paying more attention, clearly indicates that he has something important on his mind. However, as it stands, Sherlock's mind is miles away from John and this flat and even the entirety of London. His focus rests solely in this maddening, impossible case. "This is incredibly frustrating," he says behind clenched teeth. "There is nothing I can do about this case until more information comes to light, and since I've already searched each of the crime scenes myself and discovered nothing, it's unlikely that more evidence will resurface on its own. No, before we solve this we will have to wait until they strike again. This case could take weeks—hell, _months_ to solve."

John looks up from his paper. "Sherlock—"

"And even then we'd still need to analyze the new data alongside the old and who knows what other inexplicable anomalies will crop up after that?"

John tries again, "Sherlock—"

"Not to mention the difficulty that the lack of fingerprints presents—how can we expect to find the identity of the killer if they leave the crime scenes completely clean? Devoid of all identifications and evidence? Hell, we couldn't even find the actual murder weapons, let alone-"

"_Sherlock,"_ interrupts John insistently. He folds the paper in half and levels Sherlock with a significant look. "Listen, I think you should take a short break from this case, alright?"

"John," Sherlock frowns, ceasing his pacing. "I need to find the connections between the murders, how can I possibly stop now? Or better yet, why would I?"

"Sherlock, I completely understand. Cases come first, I know," says John, "but you told me yourself, this is going to take a long time to solve. Before you figure out anything definite, you'll have to wait for the killer to make their next move, and who knows how long that'll take?" John clears his throat. "In the meantime…well, I have something quite important to ask of you."

If Sherlock wasn't paying complete attention before, he is now. "Yes, John?"

"I've been thinking about this for a long time and I figure now's as good a time as any to ask, so I was wondering if, er," John pauses and looks uncharacteristically unsure of himself. "Well I was wondering if you'd be my best man, Sherlock."

"Your…your best man?" he asks faintly.

"Yes, my best man." John's bright gaze meets his. "Will you do it?"

At the mention of the wedding, something inside Sherlock splinters in two. Spending so much alone time with John these past two days has made him foolishly forget that the rest of the world still exists outside of their comfortable flat. The genuine affection in John's eyes makes something inside Sherlock melt, but the thought of standing beside him while he makes vows of marriage to someone else hurts more than Sherlock can comprehend.

However, the moment he decided to reopen lines of contact with John, he promised himself (and Mycroft) that he would do his best to abide by John's wishes, so instead of turning down the offer, he smiles and replies, "Of course, John. I'd be honored."

. . .

A half hour later, while they're watching one of John's ridiculous Bond movies on the sofa, Mary rings. John looks surprised to receive the call, but answers it with a smile nonetheless.

"Hello? I've been wonderful, love, how has the trip been?" John's smile falters at what she says next and Sherlock immediately invests all of his attention in studying John's expression and endeavoring to deduce the other side of the conversation based on his very expressive face. Apparently, whatever Mary has just told him is a surprise, and not a very good one.

"Wow, love, so soon?" John asks with a frown. His voice still sounds pleasant, but there is a frayed edge to it, almost as if he is forcing himself to remain cheery-toned. "I thought you were staying with your sister for two more days? Why did—oh. Another row? She said what? Christ, I'm sorry, darling, that sounds awful and—that too, huh? Bloody hell, she's really got a mouth on her, doesn't she?"

John keeps the phone pressed to his ear as he aimlessly paces the sitting room, his expression troubled and vaguely disappointed. "Right, yeah, no I understand. Of course it's fine! You won't be interrupting us, Sherlock and I don't have anything on right now." John glances at Sherlock and shoots him a tight smile. "Okay, love, have a safe drive back and call me when you're in London, yeah? Ta."

After he hangs up the phone, John rubs his forehead tiredly and leans against the back of his chair.

"I'm a terrible fiancé," he mutters.

"You? Terrible?" Sherlock scoffs, doubting that the words 'John Watson' and 'terrible' could even coexist within the same sentence. John is exemplary in every area of his life, including his position as Mary's fiancé.

"John you are exceptionally kind and thoughtful. Add to that your loyalty, affection, and physical charm and you have the ideal fiancé." Sherlock sniffs and pretends to resume watching the film. "Don't say bad things about yourself, they are blatantly untrue and thus tedious."

John looks stunned, then fairly endeared by the announcement. His lips remain in a worried line, but the crow's feet around his eyes crinkle in a smile. "Sherlock, that was…that was a very lovely thing to say," he begins slowly. "But I meant what I said. I…I should be excited to see my fiancé again, right? But when she said she was coming back a few days early, I couldn't help but feel disappointed. Which I shouldn't. I absolutely should not be upset that my fiancé is coming back from her trip sooner than expected. In fact, if anything, I should be excited, shouldn't I?"

Vain hope flutters in Sherlock's chest, but he forcibly pushes it down. "And why aren't you excited about her early return?" he questions neutrally.

Tangled in internal conflict, John resumes his pacing from earlier, this time moving his hands about as he verbally articulates his response. "It's just been so great being around you again, Sherlock, and I know this sounds strange but this whole weekend I've almost_ forgotten_ that I have a different life now. These past two days have been like going back in time to when it was just the two of us solving crimes and getting takeaway—and you know what? It's been bloody wonderful. I've missed you," John says sincerely, and Sherlock privately marvels at the fact that John can express his emotions so shamelessly.

"Don't get me wrong, I love Mary. Of_ course_ I do," John says, as if he's attempting to convince someone, "but sometimes it's so hard being the man she wants me to be. It's hard when she says she doesn't like me going out on cases. It's hard when she insists that my lifestyle is too dangerous and risky, because those things are such huge parts of who I am. I love her and I'm lucky to have her, but sometimes it's just _hard_. Things are so easy with us, Sherlock, and sometimes I forget it isn't like that with everyone in my life. Does it make me a bad person for feeling that way?"

"No," Sherlock soothes. "Of course not."

Sherlock almost blurts out how immensely he misses John and how the silence grows oppressive in his absence, and how days and nights stretch on meaninglessly when he isn't here. He almost says that these past few days have been the best gift he could've possibly received and for the first time in years he feels truly _happy._ He almost confesses to the sleepless nights spent staring at the ceiling and the endless days spent lying morosely around the flat.

He almost says he's so in love with John that it hurts, that it _burns_, but instead of saying anything at all, he bites his tongue and stops the words from tumbling past his lips.

When silence stretches on for too long, John assumes Sherlock has no intention of speaking again and says, with a tired sigh, "I…I should pack my stuff together. Shouldn't take long since it's just a couple of shirts and toiletries, but Mary said she'd be back in London by around ten, so it wouldn't hurt to get ready now."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees palely. "It wouldn't hurt."

* * *

><p>3.<p>

Later that morning, after John finishes packing, he walks into the sitting room as Sherlock is playing his violin. Though Sherlock is facing the window, he feels John's presence against his turned back like a gentle hand pressed to his shoulder. He decides against his initial urge to turn around immediately, half afraid it'll scare John away or put him off from discussing whatever is clearly on his mind.

Instead, Sherlock remains where he is and watches London amble into wakefulness, the windows of adjacent buildings lighting up one at a time like drowsily blinking eyes. It's late morning, so rosy blush has already finished its languid crawl across the sky and the stars have long since twinkled their final goodbyes before sunrise. He pulls the bow across the strings slowly, like a yawn, and finally turns to face John, who is simply standing there in the middle of the sitting room with his bag, gazing at him, while the light from the window casts lovely shapes across his face.

"What is that piece called?" The words are a sleepy hum, as soft and precious as the dew clinging to the window pane. Sherlock slows the music to match John's tones.

"I haven't decided yet. I am composing." He draws the bow up sharply and produces a complicated, curly tangle of notes, then smooths the bar out again to a crooning, sweet lull.

"It's beautiful," John breathes. "It sounds like…"

"A lullaby?" Sherlock guesses, absently continuing the melody, eyes downcast at the instrument.

"No." John replies, voice quivering like a plucked string. "It sounds like a love song, Sherlock."

_That's because it is, John,_ he wants to say. _I wrote this for you, I write everything for you. You alone have a thousand symphonies pounding through your veins; your every heartbeat provides the first note to a hundred ballads; the light in your eyes is enough to inspire sonnets and serenades and beautiful concertos to last a lifetime_.

"Yes," he murmurs instead, carefully avoiding John's gaze.

John's fingers move restlessly at his sides, drumming into his hip in frantic staccato. "But why does it sound so _sad_? If it's a love song, why does it sound so terribly broken?" He asks this as if it is the most important question in the world.

Perhaps it is.

John's face looks so naked in morning light, so open and true, that Sherlock suddenly has the strangest urge to cry. Something in his chest aches and throbs and threatens to burst. John's eyes are the ocean—full of dark, stormy waves thrashing about, pent up and wild like caged beasts—but his mouth and hands are soft. They are resigned, accepting, closed then open, careful, cautious, unsure, unwilling—unable—and Sherlock does not know what to make of any of it.

It is then—though not for the first time and certainly not for the last—that the measureless unfairness of it all crashes over Sherlock's head. He suddenly has the urge to break his violin in half, throw it out the window and listen for the sound of it hitting the pavement; he wants to smash all of the delicate cups that are scattered throughout the house, some filled with cold tea, other's filled with half-completed experiments, and dance atop the broken shards; he wants to grab John's hand and press it to his chest and ask if John can feel the shattered mess residing there. Can he feel the bleeding, splintered pieces? Can he feel that endless, aching throb?

John's voice shakes. "Why?"

Sherlock thinks something is going to happen—that something is finally going to be said and the house of cards they've been living under will at last come crashing down. But then John's mobile rings in the next room (they both know who it is), and just like that, the moment has withered up and blown away like a dead leaf.

John bites the inside of his cheek and cuts his eyes away. "That's probably Mary. I should take that."

Evenly, Sherlock agrees. "Yes, you should."

John makes as if to leave, but then pauses. He bites his lip. "Sherlock?" he asks. "Are you alright?"

What a terribly funny question.

Sherlock wants to sob, wants to scream, wants to yell, wants to bloody_ hate_ the world for dealing him such a soul-crushing lot, but instead he carefully places the violin down and smiles. The expression nearly kills him. "I'm fine, John," he assures. "Now go call Mary back, you wouldn't want to keep her waiting."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hey guys, so first let me apologize for the late update. My schedule has been insanely busy lately and after pumping out three essays for three separate classes last weekend I wasn't really in the mood to finish this chapter. **

**In regards to the future: I have my SATs coming up this weekend and I need to study my butt off this whole week, so unfortunately, darlings, there will be no update this Sunday. I think I may change the updating schedule to every two weeks, but that all depends on how my volleyball coach plans to structure our schedule for the upcoming few months. I'll make sure to let you guys know the new schedule when I post chapter eight, which will go up on March 22****nd****, two Sundays from now. **

**In the meantime, your feedback would mean the world, dear readers. In these next two weeks I plan to tie up some of the loose ends I have in upcoming chapters and really solidify the details of this story, so if I could hear what you guys are expecting/ hoping for, or even what you think of what has happened so far, that would help with the process immensely. Thank you all so much for being so supportive!**

**XOXO **


	8. Tension

**A/N: Hello, lovely readers! Thank you all so much for the wonderful feedback and well wishes for the SAT! ( BTW the test wasn't as bad as I suspected, which was great :D) **

**As a little thank you gift, here's an early update! Hope you all like it, and don't forget to let me know what you think in the comments!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Tension:<strong>__ (noun) a strained relationship between individuals or groups; discomfort_

_. . ._

1.

That afternoon when John is prepared to leave to the airport to pick up Mary, he pauses in the doorway and asks, hopefully and unsurely, if Sherlock would like to come over for dinner.

"You've never been to our flat before and it's about time you see it, don't you think?"

Internally, Sherlock heartily begs to differ; he has no desire to see the domestic dwelling John and his lovely soon-to-be wife inhabit. However, since he understands how important this is to John, he bites his tongue and feigns a look of excitement. "Yes, I'd love to."

The decision is made worthwhile when John gives him a one thousand-watt smile—brief but blindingly bright—and says, "Smashing. I'll text you the details once I've spoken with Mary, yeah? Should be around seven or eightish tonight."

Sherlock nods and continues smiling despite the twitch forming in his cheek. "Sounds lovely."

* * *

><p>2.<p>

_**Mary wants to know if 8pm is OK? **_

_Yes, that's fine. SH_

_**Great! The address is 5823 Royal Worchester St. Any requests for dinner?**_

_Biscuits upon biscuits, or nothing at all. You know me, John, I do not particularly care either way. SH_

_**Right. Mary wants to know, so I'll just tell her you said mince pies since that's my favorite. **_

_I was under the impression your favorite dish was roast chicken with parsley and lemon? SH_

Instead of buzzing with a new text, Sherlock's phone starts ringing. Surprised, he answers it.

"John?"

"How did you know my favorite dish is roast chicken?"

"With lemon and parsley," Sherlock corrects.

"Yes, with lemon and parsley," John says, and Sherlock can practically hear him rolling his eyes. "I've never actually told you that—in fact I myself forgot I loved that dish—so how did you know?"

Sherlock shrugs and then remembers John can't see him. "I'm not sure, but it's really not surprising as there is quite a lot of minutia about you stored in my mind palace, and I don't recall half of the information's origin. Maybe your sister mentioned it once."

"You've never met my sister."

"Yes, but you could've mentioned it via email or when you were speaking with her on the phone. I have a tendency to eavesdrop and borrow your computer, remember?"

John snorts. "Yeah, _borrow_."

"Did you really call just to find out about the chicken?" Sherlock asks, genuinely curious. "Not that I don't enjoy talking with you, of course, because I do. Immensely," he adds, and then mentally smacks himself for sounding too eager.

"Er, yeah. I did. When you said the chicken thing I was…surprised. And flattered." John clears his throat self-consciously. "Is that weird?"

"I don't think so. But then again, I am not exactly the prime example of 'normal.'"

John laughs and Sherlock's heart swells at the sound. "Neither am I, actually. We're both pretty nutty, aren't we?"

"I prefer the term 'unconventional' or perhaps 'unique'."

"'Creative individuals opposing society's norms' is a good one," John muses. "Or maybe 'rebels against the status quo'."

"We're not forming a gang, John, no need to come up with clever names," Sherlock replies drily, which makes both of them dissolve into laughter.

Once they've recovered, John says, "I better go help Mary prepare dinner. See you at eight?"

Sherlock smiles crookedly at the ceiling. "Indeed."

* * *

><p>3.<p>

John and Mary's flat is located in the suburban part of London, where the birds sing in trees and the streets are perpetually filled with laughing children. There is no danger of smog or murder or honking cars here: only peaceful silence, sunshine, and homemade pies cooling in window sills. The building's residents have customized mailboxes, community accommodations, and a quaint parking lot for the few, eco-friendly cars that belong to the occupants; upon first sight, Sherlock decides this is an area one might consider ideal for cozy families or romantic couples.

It's all terribly dull.

When he enters the building and climbs the well-kept staircase, Sherlock counts all the differences between this place and 221B, and tries to imagine why on earth John would prefer _this._

He raps his knuckles on the door twice.

"Sherlock, lovely to see you!" Mary sings upon opening the door. She steps back inside and gestures for him to follow. "Well come on in!"

He does.

"So…this is it," John says, sweeping his hand out in a presenting motion, as Sherlock steps inside the flat. "Our humble abode."

Immediately, Sherlock feels suffocated by his surroundings. Butter-colored upholstery, vases of flowers bursting from every corner, hand-sewn doilies resting on the coffee table: the flat is grossly overzealous in its attempt to appear warm and welcoming. Everything about the room seems deliberate and calculating, from the organized throw pillows to the bowl of colorful potpourri by the door; it's almost as if Mary modeled her home directly after the stereotypical suburban households plastered across _Style Magazine_. The whole place reeks of domesticity and feminine influence.

The only trace of John can be seen in the small wooden desk in the corner—presumably his writing space—which is adorned sparingly with a UK AMRY mug, a thin stack of papers, and his laptop. Aside from this one detail, though, there is no indication that a man lives here, let alone John Hamish Watson, former army doctor and esteemed Captain.

To Mary, he says, "It's lovely," because he knows that's what she wants to hear, and to John he merely nods in approval. Sherlock figures somewhere deep down, John doesn't actually care for the décor and atmosphere of his own home—he's never known John to have any particular fondness for vanilla incense and floral drapes—but since it's become customary to dance around the Below the Surface things between them, he refrains from commenting.

"Thank you, Sherlock, I'm glad you think so!" Mary coos. John gives him a look that is equal parts relieved and disappointed, and then makes a beeline for the sofa where he immediately pulls out his laptop and begins typing. Sherlock raises a curious brow and is on the verge of inquiring what John is so enthusiastically working on, when Mary walks into his line of sight and gives him a beaming, white-toothed smile.

"Here, I'll take your coat," she offers, reaching out and lightly grabbing his sleeve. As if burned, Sherlock flinches away from her touch and pulls the coat tighter to his body.

"No," he says harshly, and then quickly catches himself. "I mean, no thank you,"  
>he rephrases. "I'd prefer to keep it on."<p>

"Oh! Well that's fine too," Mary chirps, though her smile looks a bit forced. "Can I get you something to drink?"

He's on the verge of saying no simply on principle, but once it occurs to him that if Mary leaves to get a drink, he and John will be left alone, he changes his mind. "Yes, please. Tea would be lovely."

"Alrighty, be back in flash!"

As soon as she's disappeared into the kitchen, Sherlock crosses the room and joins John on the loveseat.

"What are you writing?" he asks.

"Er…an email to my sister," John replies, unsubtly turning the screen away from Sherlock's view. "Nothing interesting."

Sherlock narrows his eyes and takes in the faint flush of frustration on John's cheeks, the absentminded twitch of his left hand, and the unthinking glances he keeps throwing in Mary's direction; in one smooth cognitive burst, he arrives at the conclusion that John is writing his vows.

"Why are you working on your vows right now?" Sherlock asks. "The engagement party isn't for another three weeks and the wedding itself is months after that."

"How—actually, I'm not going to ask how you know," John says, shaking his head. "And _yes_ I am working on them, so could you kindly keep your voice down so Mary doesn't hear in the kitchen?"

"Fine," Sherlock amends, dropping his voice to whisper. "You didn't answer my question."

John reclines back into the cushions and removes his hands from the keyboard. "I'm working on them now because I want to get them out of the way as soon as possible." He frowns at his own phrasing and tries again, "I didn't mean that, that sounded too harsh. I just meant, I knew this part of the process was going to be difficult so I wanted to give myself a good amount of time to get it right. Reasonable decision, right?"

John's relaxed words and the irritated lines around his eyes do not say the same thing. "Then why are you frustrated?"

"Because," John exhales, "this is turning out to be far more difficult than I thought it would be. I don't know, the words just won't come to me. Every line I write I end up deleting because it sounds too empty and vapid. Christ, Sherlock, it shouldn't be this hard."

"You seemed apt enough at writing poetry for your girlfriends in the past," Sherlock reminds him, his tone a bit sharper than intended.

The tips of John's ears go pink at the mention of his poems—respectively titled _My Love_, _Only You,_ _Just the Two of Us_, and, strangely, _Ethereal Beauty_—and he averts his eyes to the far window. Sherlock thinks it's just embarrassment until John slowly says, "Those weren't actually for my girlfriends."

He frowns, thrown off. "They weren't?"

"No," John replies hesitantly. "I never sent any of them. They just sat there in a word doc and gathered dust, alright?"

This is certainly an interesting bit of information. Sherlock stows it away in his palace for later analysis.

"I don't know why the words aren't coming easily for this," John continues. "When I wrote those poems, the words just flowed onto the page. It was effortless."

Although Sherlock once poked fun at John for writing those poems, in the privacy of his mind he always thought they were quite beautiful—which, coming from Sherlock, was exceedingly rare as he typically had no stomach for romance or flowery sentiment. He reckons John's poetry—like most things John-related—is yet another exception to his rules.

"Who were you thinking of when you wrote those poems?" Sherlock asks, though he doesn't particularly care to hear the answer. He's willing to bet his body weight in pounds that John's muse was an old girlfriend or some unattainable female stranger he passed on the street; in other words, yet_ another_ woman Sherlock has to be jealous of. "In essence, who was your inspiration? Simply tap into that well of ideas and use it to write your vows."

"They…they were about a friend," John says quietly "Someone I couldn't be with because, well, it was rather complicated. And no, I can't use the thought of them because isn't that in the same vein as, I don't know, envisioning someone else while you're shagging your partner? It's depraved, it's wrong. I should be able to write deep, meaningful things about Mary alone, shouldn't I? I don't know why this is so hard—"

"Tea's on!" Mary announces, walking into the room with a tray filled with sweets, biscuits, and a variety of artfully arranged fruit. "I wasn't sure how you take your tea, Sherlock, so I left it black," Mary says apologetically. "Here, the milk and sugar is right here." She points at the two small containers and then turns to John. "Darling, I know you prefer yours with nothing in it, so here you are!"

John smiles appreciatively and takes the cup from her. Sherlock frowns and wonders when John stopped taking milk and sugar in his tea. The last time they'd had tea together (aka, two years ago) John preferred a healthy amount of milk and, at the very least, one spoonful of sugar. Had his habits changed?

"Thank you, Mary," Sherlock says, dropping his customary three sugars into the cup.

"You have quite the sweet tooth, don't you?" Mary comments teasingly, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock's drink.

It's petty, but in response he simply smiles and drops a fourth cube into the tea. Then a fifth. "Hardly," he retorts drily.

Mary's expression falters for a fraction of a second, but in no time her 'perfect-hostess' grin is firmly back in place.

…

He isn't sure why he does it, but when Mary mentions all the planning they've yet to do for the engagement party and a shadow passes over John's face, Sherlock finds himself saying:

"I'll plan it for you."

The moment the words escape him, he regrets it. In truth, he knows why he did it—to save John the stress of fretting over yet another frivolous thing—but that doesn't mean his mouth had any right to open up and offer something as ludicrous as his _assistance _in the whole endeavor. He should be doing everything in his power to stay as far away from this wedding (and all of its accompanying events) as possible, not throwing himself right into the bloody eye of the storm. Besides, he's never even attended an engagement party, let alone planned one.

But if Mary and John's respective expressions of gratitude are anything to go by, this is not the sort of thing you can offer and then retract.

"Really?" John says, his eyebrows hitting his hairline. "You will?"

"Of course," he assures with a faint smile. "I'd love to."

"That's…that's an incredible gesture," John says warmly. "Thank you so, so much." He gives the detective one last heart-melting smile and then returns his attention to his laptop.

"Oh, Sherlock, I'm so glad you've decided to help us with the engagement party," Mary gushes, tucking a stray blond hair behind her ear. "I've been so busy lately, what with my sister and all the makeup work at the clinic…I really can't thank you enough. There are just so many details involved in planning the wedding itself, that I nearly forgot about the engagement party!"

"It's not a problem, Mary," Sherlock assures absently. His eyes drift over her shoulder at John who is sitting on the loveseat with his laptop balancing on his knees. Judging by the slightly quicker pace of his typing, he's now working on either an email or recreational writing, the latter which he has never known John to do. Sherlock immediately rules out the possibility that he's writing his vows again, because the set of his shoulders is relaxed and the lines around his eyes have disappeared. He looks relatively at peace—perhaps even content—which makes Sherlock even more curious to find out what he's doing.

"—and the balloons ought to be silver and lavender. I know what you're thinking: why those colors? Well, you see, I've always adored purple but if we went with a darker shade I fear it would be too garish and grey is just so plain, isn't it? That's why I've settled with a nice pastel shade garnished with the metallic silver for a little extra _pop_. You know?"

"Mm? Yes, of course. Pop indeed," Sherlock answers, completely oblivious to everything she just said. "John, what do you think?" he asks, just to bring John's focus back in his direction.

"Purple and silver sound lovely," he says without looking away from the screen.

"_Lavender _and silver," Mary corrects. She cocks her head at John's focused expression, clearly annoyed that is isn't aimed at her. "What are you writing, love?" she asks sweetly.

"Hm? Oh, nothing. Just working on a new blog post," he says nonchalantly, closing the laptop with finality. Sherlock can tell it's a lie from John's mouth and eyes and hands, but there isn't enough data to conclude what he was _actually_ doing, so Sherlock lets it slide for the moment and resolves to question John later.

"Well," Mary says, bringing her hands together in a clap, "why don't we get started on that roast?

…

Dinner is an odd affair.

In his own home, John seems oddly subdued and polite, whereas at Baker Street he was bursting with life and energy. Sherlock wonders if it's just his hopeful imagination looking for signs that John isn't happy here. Mary, in contrast, appears to be entirely at home among these rose colored walls and floral arrangements; she oozes confidence and domesticity and affection, to the point that Sherlock finds he can't look at her too long without becoming vaguely unsettled.

"So, love, what did you and Mr. Detective do while I was away?" she chirps, as she passes around the bowl of colorful garden salad. Sherlock watches ten different answers pass over John's face before he settles with, "Oh, you know, just watching old Bond movies and milling around London. The usual."

Mary spears a cherry tomato and raises a brow. "Oh? No cases on?"

Evidently, Mary has mastered the skill of posing a question wrapped in both barbs and sugar. It appears _Miss Morstan_ is an expert on double-layered passive aggression.

Interesting.

Instead of lying, John casually states, "Just one. But it was riddled with loose ends, so we hardly spent any time bothering with it. On a more important note," John says, smoothly changing the subject, "I asked Sherlock to be my best man, and he said yes." John smiles at him from across the table, and for one lovely moment it feels as if they are the only two people in the room.

Of course, that illusion breaks as soon as Mary rejoins the conversation. "Oh, that's wonderful!" she beams. "Look at you, Sherlock, the party planner and the best man! How lovely!"

"Yes, it is an honor," he replies, bowing his head slightly. "I'm pleased to be part of the wedding ceremony."

"And we're pleased to have you," John says, his blue eyes twinkling.

"So, Sherlock," Mary interjects, the smile easing from her face so fluidly he nearly misses the transition, "what was this weekend's case about? I'd love to hear about it."

This feels—and most likely is—a trap. Why Mary is so adamant about hearing what happened (and why John is so reluctant to tell her) is beyond him, but he knows he can't just blurt out that he and John spent the entire weekend wrapped in a huge case. He'll have to be more subtle than that.

He knows it'd be telling if he looked to John for direction, so he decides to go with his gut. "A series of murders, expertly committed, with no inkling of the killer. John is correct, though, I am leaving it alone for the time being as there is nothing we can do until further information reveals itself."

Which, unbeknownst to both John and Mary, is a lie.

He has no intention of leaving the case alone, no matter how little evidence he has at his disposal. Something is different about this series of killings: something about it invokes a hollow feeling in his chest and makes him uneasy in ways he cannot explain. This isn't just a gang member or a drug lord or a psychopath seeking revenge, this is someone smart. Obscenely smart. Terrifyingly so. This murderer had very clear motives for killing each victim, and who's to say they've finished? For all he knows, there could very well be another string of deaths looming on the horizon, waiting to add another piece to the killer's message. He wonders if it's a warning or a plea or a harsh promise. Perhaps a code? A lesson? A caution?

Either way, he's starving for answers.

"That seems wise," Mary says, nodding. For a single moment, her bright green eyes flash and something strange passes over her face, but it's gone before he has time to analyze it. "Taking a break on the case, I mean," she clarifies after a beat, the merriness seeping purposefully back into her tone. "It's always better to be patient and arrive at a conclusion once all the evidence is available."

"Indeed," Sherlock agrees neutrally. He takes a bite of flavorless, tough chicken and smiles at his hostess. "The food is delicious by the way, Mary."

She smiles and he can clearly see her canines. They're quite sharp. "Thank you, dear."

* * *

><p>4.<p>

By the time he gets home at ten pm, his mind is swimming. When John and Mary bid him goodnight and closed the door, he could practically_ taste_ the oncoming row simmering in the air.

He knows John is bound to either text or call him, so he kills time playing frantic, jittery nonsense on his violin until his fingers throb and his wrists ache. After that, he paces the sitting room and realizes, for the first time, that Mary's issue with Sherlock's cases has the potential to make things very, very difficult. What if she demands that John stop seeing Sherlock altogether?

What if John lets her?

At this point, it's Mary against Sherlock, and no matter how desperately he wants John to choose him, he can't be sure that he will. The anxiety ties his stomach into knots and makes his head hurt, so he is eventually forced to lie down on the sofa and stare listlessly at the ceiling.

At one in the morning, his phone buzzes.

_**From now on, cases are on the DL, okay? Mary wasn't pleased about this weekend. **_

From now on. That implies that John intends to continue their adventures, and more importantly, it implies that he intends to continue seeing Sherlock.

Sherlock's heart sinks to his knees in relief.

_Yes, of course, in the future we'll keep it between the two of us. What did she say? SH_

_**She insisted that it was ridiculous for me to keep risking my life like this. She said I'm too old to be 'running around London chasing bad guys'**__**with you.**_

_You're not old. SH_

_**Ha! Thanks, but the 41 birthday candles on my cake say otherwise**__._

_John, I'm 37 and I do not consider myself too old for this profession. Neither are you. The only question is, do you enjoy 'running around London chasing bad guys with me?' SH_

_**Of course. **_

_Then there's no need to stop, now is there? SH_

_**It'll be our secret then, yeah?**_

_Of course. SH _

_**Good. **_

_What were you doing on your laptop today? After the vows, I mean. SH_

_**Looking for new cases & updating the blog :-) **_

At that, Sherlock puts his phone face down on the sofa and grins at the ceiling. That's what was making John look so content and pleased? The thought of going on new cases with Sherlock? Warmth spills through his chest like honey and he finds himself unable to stop smiling.

_Find anything? SH_

_**Of course. Why don't we talk about it over breakfast tomorrow? Robby's Diner, my treat**__. _

_You know I don't eat in the morning. SH_

_**Would you make an exception if I asked extra nicely? **_

_Perhaps. SH_

_**Please, oh wonderful, brilliant, intelligent detective, will you accompany me to breakfast tomorrow morning? At, say, 7?**_

_Fine. Just for you, John. SH_

_**Smashing. I'll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Sherlock. **_

The conversation feels like an affair: a delicious little secret budding underneath his skin. He loves that he knows something Mary doesn't, even if it's something as small as he and John taking cases. He loves his and John's banter and the smooth flow of conversation, and the way they fall so easily in sync with each other. He loves that John values Sherlock more than he does Mary's rules. He relishes it, he basks in it.

He wishes for more.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thanks for reading, darlings! Let me know what you think, feedback is glorious! **

**(BTW: updates will continue to be once a week!)**

**See you all next Sunday XOXO **


	9. Rules

**A/N: Sorry for the late-ish update, guys! Prom was yesterday and I ended up getting home at 2am-which then meant I slept until 1 in the afternoon on Sunday-so I didn't have the chance to post this as soon as I wanted to. Technically this is on time, since it's 12 something right now, but I won't trouble you with the semantics of my procrastination. Anyway, hope you guys like this! Make sure to tell me what you think in the reviews!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Rules <strong>__(noun): a code of regulations __governing the __conduct, __action, __procedure,__ or __arrangement of an individual._

_. . ._

Despite the fact that he and John agreed to meet at seven, Sherlock wakes up at five the next morning, dresses in record time, and makes it to the diner twenty minutes early.

The restaurant is quaint and comfortable in the same warm, familiar manner that Mrs. Hudson's kitchen is, and the chatter filling the small building is pleasantly lively without verging on noisy. There are so many strangers in the diner—and so many deductions that have yet to be made—that from the moment he steps inside, his senses are overwhelmed by a plethora of data and information. An elderly woman and her granddaughter sit at a table in the corner, the latter smiling and nodding as the former recounts a childhood memory with nostalgic eyes; clearly the grandmother has been diagnosed with a fatal illness and the young woman, previously uninvolved in her life, felt guilty and resolved to move in with her and make up for lost time. Two women lean against the bar, chatting and laughing while they share a plate of fruit salad; one of them is undoubtedly in love with the other, if the constant 'accidental' shoulder bumps and lingering glances are anything to go by. A spindly young man near the entrance occupies a table by himself, blandly reading the newspaper and occasionally glancing across the room at the kitchen door; Judging by the cagey look in his eyes and the forced nonchalance radiating from him in waves, he slept with the cook several nights ago, and despite their agreement to keep it a secret—as the man has no intention of ever coming out—he is paranoid that the cook will not keep his promise, thus he is here keeping an eye on him.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Sherlock blinks and realizes he's been standing in the threshold of the restaurant for a good three minutes now. He clears his throat and steps the rest of the way inside, smiling briefly at the hostess and nodding his head. "Yes actually. Table for two?"

A spark of recognition lights her eyes and she tips her head to the side. "Say, you wouldn't happen to be—" she glances down at her clipboard "—Mr. Sherlock Holmes, would you?"

He raises an eyebrow. "I am. May I ask how you know me?"

She beams. "Mr. Watson said you'd be coming. He described you as a tall bloke with a long coat and 'blueish-grey' eyes, and I figured you fit the bill. Right this way, sir."

On the way to the table, Sherlock chews on the fact that John specified about his eye color. _Blueish grey._

"Here you are, sir," the woman says with a smile, pointing to the table a few feet away.

John is already sitting there, nursing a coffee and staring tensely out the window.

Even from across the room, Sherlock can tell something isn't quite right.

From the pronounced shadows under John's eyes and the terse line of his mouth, Sherlock deduces that he got into another row with Mary last night, retired to the couch, and, as a result, received very little sleep. He looks wan, exhausted, and frustrated. Perhaps a little sad too.

Sherlock dislikes seeing John like this.

"John?"

Despite the blatant misery written on his face, John immediately breaks into a smile as soon as Sherlock sits down. It's short-lived and tired, but a genuine smile nonetheless.

"It appears we both had the clever idea of arriving early," Sherlock notes, quirking up the corner of his mouth.

"Well we are clever people, aren't we?" John says. "Or at least you are."

"Oh, don't sell yourself short, John. Doctors are generally quite clever and _you _are even more intelligent due to your proximity to me."

John laughs and shakes his head. "Right, so I see your modesty is still wonderfully in check."

Sherlock smirks. "As always."

John takes a sip of coffee and his gaze slides over to the window again, as if magnetically drawn to it. The look of happiness drains from his face, revealing the dull, weary pallor of his true emotions, and something within Sherlock crumbles at the sight.

"How are you?" Sherlock asks without thinking.

As soon as he says it, they both immediately don expressions of surprise, and Sherlock realizes, perhaps at the same time John does, that he has never uttered that plebian, polite phrase in his life.

"What?" John says, blinking hard.

"I…asked how you were."

"Right, yeah, but since when do you do that?"

"Er, never. It sounded quite…odd out of my mouth," Sherlock admits, tilting his head. "But, strangely enough, I meant it. How are you?"

John clears his throat and drops his gaze to the tabletop. "That question is a just formality, right? I'm sure you figured out every single thing I'm about to say the moment you saw me."

"Yes," Sherlock concedes, "but that doesn't mean I don't want to hear what happened. From you, I mean. In your words."

With a big sigh, John tiredly meets his gaze. "As you know, Mary wasn't too happy when she found out about you and me working on a case while she was gone. At first she just seemed mildly upset by it, but, well," John frowns at the spot over Sherlock's shoulder, his posture slumping with his next words, "after I texted you, right before we went to bed, she brought it up again and made me promise that I'd stop."

Sherlock's heart plummets in his chest. "Stop," he repeats dully.

"Yes."

Sherlock tries to imagine going on cases without John. Sprinting through London with his life balancing on a needlepoint will lose its luster without his steady footed doctor running behind him; filing stacks of paperwork in Lestrade's office will become dreary and unbearable without his best friend in the chair beside him, snickering about some snarky remark or another; clamping handcuffs on the criminal's wrists and ushering them into police custody will hardly taste as sweet without his flat mate beaming proudly up at him, calling him brilliant, incredible, wonderful, clever, amazing, _perfect._

"And did you?" Sherlock asks quietly. "Promise, I mean."

John's eyes lock onto his and he deliberately shakes his head. "Of course not. I would never."

Shaken beyond belief by both relief and residual anxiety, Sherlock gives an uneven nod and takes a long gulp of water. He presses his palms flat against the table so that their trembling isn't so obvious. "That's…that's good."

"Hey," John says softly, placing a hand over Sherlock's and squeezing gently. "I promised nothing would stand between us, didn't I? I'm not going to stop going on cases with you and I'm definitely not going to stop seeing you. You're my best friend, Sherlock, I wouldn't do that."

He feels the weight of the world slide from his shoulders. He takes a deep breath. "Okay."

On a crazy whim that he will later marvel at, Sherlock turns his flat hand palm-up and tangles their fingers together. To his utmost surprise (and joy), John doesn't pull his hand away.

It's at this moment that their waitress returns and glances unsubtly at their linked hands. She is a young girl, no older than twenty two, with bright hazel eyes, a chipper smile, and cinnamon colored freckles that match her hair. From the blisters on her hands and fading tan on her arms, Sherlock deduces that she used to live on a farm, but moved to the city for Uni.

At the sight of him and John, warmth washes over her features and she grins widely. "I'm sorry if this is out of the blue, but you two make a beautiful couple," she gushes, clutching her notepad to her chest. "You remind me of my parents when they were young. You see, my dad was dark-haired and tall too, like you sir," she says, smiling at Sherlock, "and my Pa was fair haired and short like you, sir," she beams at John, "though I believe he was more strawberry-blonde. Anyway, they were absolutely nutty for each other." She laughs, and the sound is reminiscent of chiming bells. "They love to tell folks about how they met each other—some quirky, adorable mishap in the market—and they always go on and on about the countless dates they've had in this very diner. In fact, it's half the reason I ended up working here myself."

The entire time, John doesn't remove his hand. And, strangely, instead of looking disgusted or annoyed at the misconception, something bright shines in John's eyes instead. In any other context, Sherlock would call it 'pride' or perhaps 'satisfaction'; here, however, Sherlock has no idea what it signifies.

"Thank you," John replies with a small, genuine smile. Sherlock blinks a mile a minute in John's direction, completely bemused, but John makes a point of not looking at him.

"Now, what can I get you boys?"

"A number three for me and a seven for him," John answers without missing a beat.

She glances at Sherlock and titters. "A seven?"

John smiles and nods. "Indeed."

"Alrighty, your food will be here in a minute, darlings!"

"Ta," John calls as she spins on her heel and returns to the kitchen.

Finally, John looks back at him, his hand having (unfortunately) finally found its way back on his side of the table.

"I have a few questions," Sherlock begins slowly, his palm still tingling pleasantly with warmth.

"And perhaps I have some answers."

"First, why didn't you correct her?" Sherlock asks, genuinely confused. Two years ago, if anyone even _insinuated_ that they were together, John would launch into his customary 'Not Gay' speech and make a point of leaving a healthy distance between his and Sherlock's bodies for the rest of the week. Now John is suddenly okay with holding his hand in public and listening to some young woman prattle on about how 'adorable' they are?

Suffice to say, the detective's head is spinning like a top.

John shrugs and pretends to scan the menu, even though he's just ordered. "I didn't correct her because she was a sweet girl and she meant well. Besides, we _were_ holding hands, so it wasn't as if her observation was completely uncalled for."

_If I question this further, then I will be looking a gift horse in the mouth, _Sherlock thinks to himself._ I shouldn't mention it, I should drop this subject entirely and go back to leaving the unspoken things unspoken. As they should be. _

However, Sherlock is a curious man, so he ends up voicing his question anyway. "So you're okay with holding my hand?"

If Sherlock didn't know better, he'd say the tips of John's ears went red as he said this; however, since he's never seen John blush over anything in his life, he chalks it up to the fairly warm temperature of the diner.

"I am," John says at length. "It's…it can be a friendly gesture, can't it?" he asks, sounding a touch defensive.

"Of course!" Sherlock assures, perhaps too eagerly. "I mean, er, yes, it is friendly. Platonic. It's just a hand after all, right?"

John nods vehemently at that. "Yes, just a hand."

"I had another question as well."

"Go on," John says, seeming relieved at the prospect of a subject change.

"What is a number seven and why did you two seem so amused by it?" Sherlock asks, frowning.

To his utter annoyance and endearment, John only grins.

…

A number seven, as it turns out, is a pancake decorated to look like a smiling clown.

"Really, John?" Sherlock deadpans, staring down at the monstrosity's whipped cream, blueberry-dotted eyes. "This is quite childish."

John laughs. "Oh come on, you love having sugary rubbish for breakfast. Hell, biscuits are practically ninety percent of your diet!"

Sherlock sniffs indignantly and raises his chin. "I'll have you know, I ate roast for dinner on Tuesday and had Chinese on Wednesday. Those certainly aren't 'sugary rubbish.'"

John smirks and raises a brow. "Tuesday was dinner with Mrs. Hudson and Wednesday you were at the lab late and Molly brought in takeaway. Those two instances hardly prove you can demonstrate a well-balanced diet."

"How did you know?" Sherlock asks, impressed. "Did you talk to them?"

"Nope. I just can't imagine you slaving away at the oven preparing a roast, and you're far too impatient to phone the Chinese place and order takeaway. That's why I always did it, remember?"

Sherlock does remember. "Of course." He glances down at his plate and sighs. "Well, I suppose I'll give the chef credit for at least being creative with his medium. The strawberry slices for hair was quite inspired."

John grins.

"So," Sherlock says, sectioning off a bit of the clown's forehead. "What cases did you find yesterday? I can't imagine there was anything spectacular as I was just on the blog the other day and nothing ranked higher than a four."

John grimaces. "Yeah, it really was slim pickings. I did manage to find what I thought was an eight, but once I reread the email a bit more carefully I realized it said 'gerbil' instead of 'German'. That made the whole thing drop to a very generous three."

"Yes, I believe I made the same mistake. Missing lampshade, shredded photographs?"

John nods. "Yup. I did however find one that might be fun just for the afternoon. It's only a five, or maybe a four and a half, but it takes place in rural Sussex which I've heard is lovely this time of year. Might be a nice getaway, don't you think?"

Going anywhere with John for any period of time always sounds lovely. "Indeed. What was the case about?"

"Oh, a young man is convinced that his sister's fiancé stole money from him. I'm sure it'll be an open-and-shut ordeal, but it'd be good to get away from the city for a while."

Sherlock takes a measured sip of coffee and addresses the elephant in the diner. "And what will you be telling Mary?"

"That I'm visiting Harry," John replies smoothly. "Harry lives in Eastbourne, which is only an hour more away. You will coincidentally be out of town the same day because of some business you're taking care of for Mycroft. Or, actually, she probably won't even know you weren't in, since it's pretty unlikely she'd drop by the flat."

Sherlock nods along, an electric thrill dancing up his spine. "So we're doing this?" he asks, doing his best to suppress the excitement in his voice.

John grins at him and that same glint of adrenalin dashes across his eyes. "I'd say so."

"When do we leave?"

"Well, this is hardly a pressing matter, and since tomorrow is Friday and I'd rather not miss work, we can leave Saturday morning. We'll solve the case, stay in Sussex overnight, and then come back Sunday morning. Sound good?"

Sherlock smiles and wiggles his fingers against the tabletop. "Sounds perfect."

…

After another hour of easy banter, laughter, and the occasional exchange of glowing looks, John's mobile buzzes.

He scans the text and frowns, the joke he was in the midst of telling falling from his lips.

"Is everything alright?" Sherlock asks, concerned.

"Hm?" John looks up from the phone. "Oh, yes, everything's fine. Mary just said we're going to miss our movie date."

"Ah. I see."

"Here, I got it" John says, placing money and a generous tip on the table inside the bill.

"John, really, it's fine, I can—"

"Nope," John says simply. "My treat, remember?"

"I'm paying next time," Sherlock insists sternly, reluctantly allowing John to foot the bill.

"Good," John smiles. "Alright," he says, rising from the table, "I better get going. Take care, yeah?"

Then he pulls Sherlock into an unexpected but nonetheless welcome embrace, holding him for a few beats longer than is perhaps strictly necessary. Sherlock exhales slowly, trying to alleviate some of the suffocating pressure (longing, yearning, desperation) building in his chest, and relaxes into the hug. Without really meaning to, his hands fist the material of John's jacket, as if trying to hold him in place for as long as possible.

"Sherlock, this whole morning has been wonderful. I…I really needed it," John confesses quietly, not letting go. His breath feels warm against Sherlock's neck.

He doesn't know what to say, so he simply nods his head, relishing that his cheek brushes ever so slightly against John's. The morning stubble feels quite nice.

When John finally pulls away, he squeezes Sherlock's shoulders and gives him a long, steady look. Sherlock peers back—openly, honestly—and finds himself feeling both comforted and grounded by John's calm, unhurried gaze. He could plunge into those blue pools and spend entire afternoons wading around in them—and most likely would have, had John not looked away and glanced down at his watch a beat later.

"Mary wants me home by eleven, so I should head back," he says, not looking overly pleased about the arrangement. "I'll text you, though, okay?"

Sherlock nods and stuffs his hands deep into his pockets, wriggling his fingers against the spare change and house keys. "And I will text you back."

John grins and ducks his head. "Ha, alright, good. I'm glad." He heads to the door and then pauses in the threshold.

"Sherlock?" he says, turning around.

"Yes?"

John smiles. "You're brilliant."

"What makes you say that?"

John only grins and pushes open the door, calling over his shoulder, "It's been a while since I've told you that. Just wanted to make sure you didn't forget."

…

Sherlock's chest doesn't stop glowing all the way to Baker Street.

* * *

><p>2.<p>

He knows John doesn't want him working on the Ten-Hour Deaths case for many reasons—mostly because he doesn't want Sherlock to lose sleep over something that physically cannot be solved without further evidence, especially since he should be focused on helping with the wedding right now—but the sweet call of the unsolved mystery beckons to him.

Sherlock is well aware that Mary doesn't want him on the case either, but he doesn't give a rat's arse about what she thinks anymore, so her opinions don't even come into consideration as he debates whether or not to reopen the investigation.

When it comes down to it, he recognizes that there are not many things of value in his life right now, aside from John and the Work. And since John's time and energy belong almost entirely to Mary, Sherlock has only his cases to keep him sane.

He reckons it wouldn't hurt to do a little research.

_I am looking into the THD case again. I need info. SH_

_Pardon me, brother, but since when have you made your own acronyms for cases? I was under the impression that was John's territory. MH_

_The Ten Hour Deaths case, Mycroft, excuse me for not being eloquent enough to type it all out. Now are you willing to help or not? SH_

_To share information? Perhaps. But like most things, it shall come at a price. MH_

_Feel free to take my first born child. SH_

_Thank you, but you provide more than enough infantilism in my life, Sherlock. I'd prefer if you solved a case for me. MH_

_What is the case? SH _

_Oh, it isn't quite formed yet, but I can sense it on the horizon. And, as you and I both know, my senses are hardly ever wrong. Simply consider this an IOU. MH_

_Now who's using acronyms? SH _

_Deal or no deal? MH_

_Deal. SH_

_Splendid. Now what exactly do you need to know? MH_

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading, lovelies! Please let me know what you think in the comments! Feedback is everything :)<strong>

**Until next Sunday! xoxo**


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